After round two, they took a break to devour the lasagna he’d made. Ben was actually a pretty good cook. He’d cultivated that skill as a way to please Julie’s mother, and he still remembered some of the recipes she’d taught him. Not lasagna, of course. Too much cheese and pasta; Mrs. Reinhard would have fired her for a dish like that.
Julie pulled on his overshirt, the blue cambric barely clearing the tops of her thighs. She’d finally taken off the thigh-highs, thank God, or they’d still be back in bed going for round three. She lit the candles while he served up the lasagna, garlic bread and salad that had been sitting while they screwed their brains out.
“Sorry the lettuce is wilted. I blame your n*****s,” he teased.
“And the butter is congealed on the garlic bread. All my fault, too?
