8
London, Kensington Gardens
Atwood House
Tuesday, September 16, 2014
8:58 p.m.
Sixteen. Breathe.
He was mentally counting his bench presses and his breaths to keep Laetitia out of his mind. But he wasn’t having success. Her face kept appearing between numbers.
Seventeen. Breathe.
How her fingers intertwined when she was enraptured by something, enchanting him with her delicacy. How her light-brown brows furrowed when her mind wandered to someplace else as she thought how to explain her feelings.
It was all much more interesting than the hard stress and pressure his arm muscles were undergoing.
Eighteen. Breathe.
Then his wayward memories became creative fantasies.
The taste of her mouth, the softness of her skin, the tensing of his whole body with her nearness.
Nineteen. Brea
