Balancing the Books
A bead of sweat ran down the side of Philip’s head and trickled into his hairline. He’d been lying flat on his back on the cold parquet floor for what felt like hours. Realistically, it probably hadn’t even been one hour, but because he’d been trying so hard not to move a muscle for fear of toppling the stack of hardback books resting on his abdomen, every single minute was torture.
And yet, at the same time, it was complete and utter bliss. Giovanna was sitting on a wooden chair, the legs of which were either side of his hips—as were hers—and she was using the pile of books as a table. She idly flipped the pages of the weighty tome she was pretending to read, and studiously ignored Philip, as though he really were nothing but a table.
Philip’s c**k had never been so
