burned out

As I served her dinner, she kept staring at me, teasing me with her eyes. She asked me if I had cut the olives myself, if I had baked the biscuits. I assured her I had. She put her napkin on her plate, covering the hardly touched meal, and walked around the table to sit on my lap. I kissed her. We forgot the rest of our dinner, fucking on the floor until the candles had burned out.

Lord Malinov, Journals of Lord Malinov

About Lord Malinov

Lord Malinov, literary author, bon vivant, rogue romantic poet
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