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

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About Lord Malinov

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