The girl was from North End, precisely the kind of crowd his father told him to stay away from, and though not his type (not that he had one, per se), he’d always been every man’s man. Or woman’s man, but the former wouldn’t have been entirely wrong, only a truth he had yet to discover about himself. She, though, the brunette laying to his right, panting in the effortless pleasure of an orgasm, was quite an enigma to him that had somehow drew him in. An enigma in the guise of some truly twisted sexual tension, perhaps, and no, she wasn’t his type, but she was a good lay, and he liked the challenge, if he had to admit anything at all.
“Need a washcloth?” he said, swallowing through his breathing as he stared up at a crack on her ceiling. --- @avaxblake
