Twenty-Six
WHEN ROMAN’S CONFESSION HIT THE Guardian a couple of days later, Dante lay next to me in bed in the attic and showed me on his phone, whispering, “This is your doing, baby.”
“You’re the one that suggested this to him.”
“Yep, the new and improved moralistic Dante Sinclair, all because of you.”
I cuddled him harder, burying my mouth in his neck. “What do we do now?”
“We wait… and in the meantime, we make love.”
“I can handle that.”
Dante spooned me, palming my breasts, my arm raised behind me to tease some fingers through his hair. His erection against my bottom was so tender and intimate as he rained kisses over my neck and shoulder.
“Do that thing I like,” he asked, and I reached my hand down to tap my fingertip at the sensitive hole in his p***s. “Just crazy… that drive
