The white roses that Jean-Claude sent every week framed Fredo's darkness. They aren't, Zerbrowski, they really aren't. I held him with my legs locked around his body, my arms locked around his shoulders, I held him, and he fucked me. Sweet and warm and .
Up to breathe, up to let the wetness from my mouth trail down the shaft of his body. He gave a smaller laugh. His voice was close, and when I opened my eyes he was standing in front of me. I wouldn't do that to anyone.
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