WHEN SINCLAIR BRINGS his motorcycle to a stop outside of my apartment complex, Sofia is there waiting. She’s leaning against the brick near my apartment door, and the moment she spots me on the back of Sinclair’s motorcycle, her eyes narrow.
I groan internally. She had started calling last night in the middle of Sinclair with his head between my thighs, and it had been easy to ignore. She had called again right after the two of us had come again, and the calls drastically increased enough for me to know she had figured out where I probably was. It had gotten so annoying, I had put my phone on Do Not Disturb and sent her a text, telling her I was currently doing what she had pushed me to do so vehemently.
This morning, after Sinclair and I had gotten out of the shower and I had gotten dr
