*Rosalind*
I snuggle beneath the blankets until I'm flush against Riverdale, absorbing his warmth. He begins slowly stroking my back, which should soothe me, but my head feels as though it exploded sometime during the night and is only now starting to come back together, each piece locking into place with a snap that causes a pain behind my eyes.
I can't recall ever indulging to such an extent. Why would Riverdale do this to himself night after night? While I have to admit that the majority of the evening seemed like jolly good fun, I'm not certain it's worth this agony. I could have had as much fun with fewer spirits. I might have even remembered the night. At this precise moment, it's little more than snippets, flashes.
Arriving here. Riverdale disrobing me. A deliciously warm bath.
