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Tracks
Dante The next morning, I stir a pan of scrambled eggs—the only breakfast I ever learned how to make on the shitty hot plate I had in my dorm at Wagner—and glance over my shoulder at Eleni. She sits at the island behind me, massaging her cheeks with one hand. “What are you doing?” I ask. She blushes just a little and tucks her hand around the cup of coffee she poured herself from the pot she insisted on making first. “Nothing?” I shake my head. “I thought you were listening now.” Her blush deepens, and she shifts in her seat like she’s trying to keep weight off the flogger marks I left on her ass last night. My c**k responds instantly. Maybe we’ll have a little breakfast to get our strength back and head right back upstairs. “It’s lame but”—she shrugs—“my cheeks hurt because I’ve bee
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