roasted lunch

She slipped into my tent that night, wordlessly, and we fucked in the pale shadows of a moonlit night until the first rays of dawn illuminated the last stares of adoration. We slept, wrapped together until the aroma of a roasted lunch finally roused our hunger. She wrote her number in my notebook. Back in town, I called her. Sky never returned my calls.

Lord Malinov, Flowers of Malinov

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About Lord Malinov

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