Benedict
When I returned home last night, my mother immediately asked where I had been.
“I’m a grown man who doesn’t answer to you, mother. Where I was isn’t anyone’s business but my own,” I’d said before walking away.
Bethany, of course, had pounced on me. I’d told her nearly everything, then I laid in bed remembering the feel of Sloane’s lips, the taste of her tongue against mine, her intoxicating scent, and most of all the sweet way she admitted that she’d missed me.
In the morning, I was flying high, ready to see her later today.
“You seem awfully chipper this morning, Benedict,” my mother says over breakfast, her sourpuss face securely in place.
“It’s a lovely morning, mother. Perhaps you should take some time to enjoy it yourself, get some fresh air.”
“I have some things I nee
