rhythmic exclamation

“Oh my God,” Meg said, drooling the juice of her peach down her chin. She picked up a napkin and wiped her mouth, almost laughing. The moans grew into a rhythmic exclamation of breath. “Steve,” she said, grabbing my arm, “I think they’re fucking.”

Lord Malinov, Flowers of Malinov


About Lord Malinov

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