— from Open, by Lisa MoorePot exacted from him a languid thoroughness while making love. Every touch lost its path, outlived its life expectancy. She had licked under his arm, that cool trail he’d felt for days afterward, while washing dishes for his mother, dopey with the steam rising from the sink and the heat of the oven, or while lazing on the living-room carpet before Gilligan’s Island and Get Smart with the slipery velvet of the golden retriever’s ear in his fingers.
April 29 2009
About
these are just some things that i found. i will put them over here, on the left. so you know where to find them.
