I throw myself out of bed, trying to throw off the damn dream.
An hour later, I dump the plastic bags filled with every single piece of chocolate the convenience store had out on the kitchen counter. I left at dawn to drive out to the highway and get it, spurred by this inexplicable need to make sure Natasha’s cravings are met.
Natasha’s needs.
Holy. Mother. Of God.
Watching her come and come and come last night went beyond any of my wildest fantasies, all of which prominently feature her.
Who would’ve known? She doesn’t come off as overtly s****l. She doesn’t dress sexy. She dresses like an American teenager or college student. I guess I do, too, so maybe that means nothing. But her seeming lack of awareness of how goddamn beautiful she is has always been part of the appeal. It makes
