I flip again. The last one is her alone. She’s seated at the window seat of a little café about fifteenminutes from the library. One hand clasped around a cup of coffee and the other holds a book.
Something jumps out at me. Something I’ve never noticed before. I frown, lean in, look closer. Andthen I see the title of the book she’s reading: War and Peace.
Tolstoy. A Russian author. One I distinctly remember mentioning the night we met.
It makes me wonder: Have I been in her head the past six years?
If so, her face gives nothing away. She’s lost in the book. Lips pursed in subtle concentration, thatblond hair falling in waves around her face again. The tiniest hint of cleavage is the icing on the cock.Enough to send all the blood in my body rushing to my c**k.
I’m thro
