Alexander
BRUTUS and pornography are usually my only two incentives for stepping foot through my front door every evening. Tonight I have a third. A most ridiculous third.
I drop my keys on my smoking table and deactivate the alarm, and then I head straight through to the kitchen, which of course is immaculate, without so much of a clue as to whether someone sat and ate bacon in my absence this morning. I open the fridge, and a glance at the packet of bacon thrills me.
Two slices missing. An egg, too.
It makes me smile, which is unusual. My muscles feel tight and out of practice.
My note is missing, and in its stead, propped so neatly against the fruit bowl, is a torn scrap of notebook paper.
Thank you very much, Mr Henley, sir.
Shit.
My c**k aches, hardening at the memory of her n
