* * * *
Sleepless, after two hours crawled into three hours of critiquing a short novel called The Desperate Affair, a literary piece by Rosamond Franklin that read like desperatedrivel, I climbed into bed, stared up at the ceiling, and couldn’t get the pianist out of my mind. My hands discovered the bare private parts between my legs, caused some swelling to occur, and…
I imagined that Tuck was the type of a man who could make my mind and body relax, positioned next to me on the bed, and cuddled against my side. Didn’t I want to test that theory, letting him manhandle the private parts between my thighs with his mouth or hand, willing me into a state of tiredness and sleep? I thought so. And such a good thought it was.