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The trash from the crowds is cleaned up and everyone is as sober as a judge for Lent. I’m drinking for medicinal purposes. That chemistry midterm was brutal.He gives me a hurt puppy dog look, even though his eyes twinkle. “You is a hard woman, Natalie Delphine Reynolds, meaner than my Matilde, rest her soul.”I laugh and hand him the glass. He sighs happily and tips his battered fedora, then brings the glass to his lips. I expect him to down it, but he lets the barest trace of bourbon wet his mouth.Shaking his head, he hands it back and looks down at his whittling. “They say I might get a new liver someday.”I lean over and squeeze his shoulder. “That would be a very fine thing.”Laughing, he says, “Non, not for me. A gift like that need to go to a young person with more years than I got left. Too precious to waste on an old street musician.”He’s probably right, but I refuse to say the words. Everyone has to make their own choices in life, and Frère Michel has lived a good one, despite. A small gasp escaped her when she felt the large, warm hand of the commander reach under her towel. His long, callused finger ran along her slit, causing her breathing to quicken, her heart pounding in her chest.Finally, she managed to gasp a "No, sir." It was nothing more than a breath.She shivered when she heard the rumble in his chest, like a panther purring with triumph over a kill. "Are you sure about that?"Her jaw clenched when she felt his finger again slide along her slit. She felt a heat in her face as her cheeks flushed brightly, realizing that she was already moist. The smugly confident expression on Roscrow's face made her wetter still. She didn't even understand why. She wanted to claw at his face, scream, and run away. She already had a love interest, a private who'd just graduated his training and was out on ballista duty. But the commander's overwhelming dominating presence left her knees too weak to run, her whole body tingling, her heart pounding.Roscrow knew very.
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