For a moment his thoughts were free from the turmoil and excitement of the day before and he lay in bed, not thinking, just enjoying the streams of light that came in in angular lines through the plantation shutters at his windows. He reveled in the feel of the warm linens beneath him. He was hard, as he was every morning, come rain or come shine, and this erection was more insistent than any thought that could intrude. He spit on his hand and took care of himself quickly, not thinking of anything but delighting in the sensations his own body gave him, that delicious electricity coursing through him, and released into his boxer briefs. He pulled them off, balled them up, and laid them, come side up, gently on the floor. He would rinse them out before throwing them in the laundry. The respite was brief. Henry turned on his side, and reality intruded, reminding him that today was the day he must give Rosalie Fiorello his answer.
What do You think about Dinner At Fiorello’s (2015)?
