“What’s the R for?” I asked in an offhand way, hoping to convince her that I didn’t care all that much.
“Oh, that,” she drawled, then gave a soft laugh, turned her head to look over her shoulder like she’d forgotten it was there. “Dumb stuff you do when you’re young.”
Amalia sprawled on her stomach, naked save for the white sheet that had wrapped itself around one beautiful, tanned calf. Her loose dark hair slid over her shoulder and the perfectly executed R of a scar was gone.
I wanted to ask her what the initial stood for, but she looked at me through hooded eyes, and quirked her lips. As if she wanted it again. As if we hadn’t just fucked. My dick told my brain to shut up and stop using up so much blood so I could get hard again. Amalia wasn’t one of those women who would hang around long if you didn’t give her what she wanted. I was pretty sure of that.
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