Jun 2
She stood naked, except for her baggy blue jeans puddled at her feet.
Her feet: pigeon toed with one over the other, nails clad in fresh white polish.
There was a sheepish smirk on her too-pretty-for-me face.
One hand perched on her slender hip and the other idly curling a strand of her coffee-brown hair. She looked atāintoāme and I was altogether choked by an allure I had never known before, nor will I ever know again.
She dropped the hand that had been curling her hair to the unoccupied hip and tilted her head with a glower and an irked exhale.
You gonna fuck me, or not?
That was it, my invitation.
I fumbled, however, managed, with great difficulty, to speak one word:
Yesā¦
-Oscar Kristinn
