Thursday, April 05, 2007

Bloor Line, sleepy eyes and fresh eyeliner.

Caucasian woman, early 40s, with short strawberry blonde hair and a simple stud in her left nostril, wearing a long green coat and crushed velvet scarf, carrying a teal umbrella stashed between her knees.

Not That Kind of Girl, Catherine Alliott (McArthur & Co.)

Page 166:

My saintly husband, I thought with a smile as I shut the front door behind me. Don't suppose many wives could say the same of their spouses without a hint of sarcasm.

She settles into his chest, the bath water rising around her collarbone. He strokes her arms, her thighs, reaches below the water and rests his fingers on her hips, tapping. It's her decision. She rolls over, rests her breast against him, kissing his neck below the scar on his chin. He wraps his arms around her satisfied with this gesture. They'll make it another day.


(I'm taking Friday off. See you Monday!)

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