She deserves a treat after the torment I put her body through last night. She was so, so good. Needy and obedient.

The bedroom is now silent, save for her rhythmic breathing and the birdsong filtering through the open window. The syncopation between the two sounds creates a natural beat and I let it play out, before slithering under the covers and starting to map her sleeping form.

About halfway down her spine, fuschia tresses pool on the mattress. I stroke them, where last night I had wrapped them around my fist and tugged, jerking her chin up for a cum-laden kiss.

I dust lips along the contour of her nakedness. Traces remain from where the flogger falls licked her skin. The outer edge of the breast closest to my mouth is darker red where my handprints had landed.

She’d asked to be marked. Then begged. Each resounding slap on her body or snap of the whip released more need until she was yowling and arching, straining against the rope securing her in a star to the bed, yet calling out for harder thrashes to join the others.

It's only the third time we've hooked up and I didn’t question her motives. Not when she was so clearly intent on being driven out of her mind with lust. She needed it and I willingly gave it.

Maybe that’s why she comes back. It surely can’t be physical attraction: I’m not far off twice her age. It’s probably the idea of me that resonates. The fact I don’t put up with her bratty behaviour when everyone else fawns. That we’ll tussle. Scratch and claw until we’re breathless and she ultimately lets me ‘win’ and take her. Push her out of her comfort zone. Hurt her just enough.

Last night was no exception. I delivered everything she wanted until her screams of ecstasy peaked, then abated. Until they became whimpers, then regular breaths, and I untied her. Let her rest in my bed, gradually returning to being the gregarious girl I met via her Instagram channel.

My caresses linger over her hip before skimming all the way down the outer edge of her thigh to her feet. It’s warm under the covers, heat radiating from her skin as I brush fingertips under each foot, stroking from heel to the ball.

She stirs. Wiggles her toes. Murmurs. Rolls onto her back and I nuzzle her instep with my lips. Work my way up to nibble the pad of each toe.

Sitting, I pick up one foot and kiss the ball. Trail kisses to her ankle and stroke it. Drift back to her toes, skimming my lips over them.

I massage her foot. Love the way she shivers as I flick my tongue out, lapping the pad and nibbling the tip of each toe. Parting my lips, I take her big toe between them. Gently suck.

Widening my mouth, I take the next toe in too. Then the next until every one glistens. I pop my lips off their tips, letting them dry as I massage her foot again.

Her sighs drift. I move to the other foot. Brush my stubble over the sole. Kiss her heel, all the way to the toes that she flexes in anticipation. I nibble each. Take them in my mouth and gently suck.

I love taking my time because it starts to infuriate her. She's so used to getting what she wants, when she wants, that anything else is a shock. I doubt she was prepared for that first afternoon behind the golf clubhouse. I certainly wasn't.

She was filming for her influencer reel in a T-shirt that made Shatner era Star Trek outfits seem baggy, and a skirt so short it rode up her thighs to flash her lack of underwear every time she bent to spike her tee in the ground. It was easy to see why she had legions of fans.

Her colossal tits wobbled as she lined up the shot. Swung. Struck the ball squarely with the five-iron. It sailed onto the left edge of the fairway and proved, despite what many naysayers on her channel voiced, that she wasn't just hired tits and ass to sell club memberships.

Crossing to her phone clamped in a tripod, she thumbed the file and grinned as it played back. She recorded a brief voice over, picked up the tripod assembly and began down the fairway to fetch her ball. Rick, her squirrel-faced caddy, followed. I did too. Couldn't take my eyes off her globes that fought to stay concealed beneath the stretch fabric skirt.

When we reached the green, she tossed the ball a short distance from the flag, set up the camera nearby and recorded the putt, explaining as she went this time. I noticed she had the lens aimed directly at her chest so as she bent over the club to look in the mirror on the floor, her predominantly male followers would be sure to remember the lesson.

Satisfied with the performance, she retrieved the tripod and ball, and headed towards the clubhouse. I fell in step.

"Miss Flannigan?" She turned, appraised me with a single glance and carried on striding. "We spoke earlier. Leonard Brands, City Telegraph."

She screwed her nose up like it took great mental effort to recall me. "Oh yeah."

"Yes. Just wondered if now would be a good time for the interview? I know many people in the area are interested in how you rocketed to fame on the course."

The sharp nod was of course not to indulge me but because it expanded her reach and column inches. The circumstances leading to the interview involving her gagging on my expanding column inches didn't make it into the article.

The breeze ruffled her hair and she swept an electric pink lock behind her ear. “I’m famous because I’m good at golf. End of.”

I smiled. “No, you’re not.”

She stopped. “What?!”

“If you were good at golf, you’d be on the circuit. LPGA and so forth. Instead, you’re the star of a golfing Instagram channel.“ I flitted my gaze to her chest again. Momentarily imagined it free and swinging with every bounce of her frame as she rode my cock. "To be fair, you are very good at that. Inspirational, even."

She eyed me, then began pacing away towards the clubhouse again. I caught up. "That's the story, you see. I'd like to give readers a flavour of how you decided golf was the right sport for you."

"Even though I'm shit at it?" she scoffed.

"I didn't say that."

She pouted. "Might as well have."

"You're up against athletes who train eight hours a day, six days a week on prescriptive diets and wall-to-wall physio. Unless you're going to join them, you'll always only be above average." Her cleavage begged for my attention but I ignored the urge. "Well above average."

Her tone softened a fraction. "Fine. But don't you want my backstory first?"

"Pretty sure I can guess it already. Only child. Public school. Dropped out of uni. Apple of Daddy's eye. All you had to do was flutter your," I gave in. Dropped my gaze to her cleavage bounding beneath the straining fabric, "lashes to get what you wanted. How am I doing?"

She bristled. "You forgot the Coke habit at uni, but yeah. Close enough."

I said nothing. She eyed me. "You're not very nice are you?"

"Wouldn't be a very good journalist if I was." I shrugged. "I just tell it as I see it."

We reached the back of the clubhouse. Rick took the tripod off her and went one way. We went the other.

She stopped. Placed her hands on her hips, forming curves and angles that would inspire architects. "Okay fine, Mr Journalist, for your story. What do you see? Right now. Come on."

I scanned every sumptuous arc of her body. Ran a hand through my sandy hair. "A privileged, spoiled brat using her considerable assets and Daddy's money to get ahead—"

Her hand flew up and I swung out of the way. Caught her wrist on the backswing. "I was going to say, and doing a fine job of it too, don't do that again."

"Or what?"

Her pulse was thundering under my grip. I shook my head and growled, "In my day, Miss Flannigan, I'd have you over my knee. Teach you some manners."

"That's rich coming from Captain Blunt," she spat.

It was interesting that she didn't try to pull away. Her perfume drifted. Nostrils flared. Eyes blazed, like the chasm between hostility and curiosity had radically shallowed. But still she let me maintain my grip.

"If I let go, are you going to behave? Or do you need more time to grow up?"

Her chest heaved and I made the mistake of glancing at it.

Big mistake.

She smirked. "Yeah, just like my followers. Not in it for the game." She eased fractionally into my space, trailed a free solitary fingertip down my torso. Paused at my sternum. Continued all the way down until she scratched the tip of my dick through the denim. Against my will, it swelled as she sing-songed, “Always thinking with this.”

Neither of us moved. Eyed one another until I fully hardened and a mischievous grin formed on her soft features.

Running her digit down the concealed length, she cupped my balls and her expression lit further. “Did you really come to interview me? Or did you just want to—” she squeezed, “—come?”

"Miss Flannigan," I warned.

"Yes, Mr Brands?"

Her fingers roamed; a voyage of discovery that I sensed she’d trodden many times. She eased my zipper down. Snaked inside to grip my raging manhood. I inhaled. Said nothing.

"Mmmm, what have we here?" She tugged my underwear aside. Stroked me. "My backstory's simple. Golf is chock full of horny blokes. Young. Old. Married. Single… Grumpy." She flashed me a smile and smeared a dot of pre-cum over the flare of my dick. "And I adore teasing them. Showing myself off. It makes me—" she withdrew, slid her pre-cum laden fingertip beneath the taut skirt fabric and brought it back out, glistening with her arousal. "Wet."

Her fingertip eased across the gap between our bodies, slipped past the zipper and spread the silky concoction over my cock head. It swelled as I breathed out. Took on a life of its own and dragged me with it.

Sliding her fingertips to the base, she applied downward pressure. Fresh morning air kissed my turgid cock five seconds before she twisted free of my grip, sank to her knees and placed her lips on it. She gazed up, heaved her top beneath her magnificent tits and engulfed my erection.

Steadying myself with one hand on the clubhouse wall, I glanced around. Still early enough that the place was virtually deserted, but not for long. I ran the other hand down to the back of her head. She needed no encouragement, yet moaned when I pulled her onto me deeper. Her head bobbed. If my ex-wife had sucked cock like this, we’d still be together.

Vibrations swam from my shaft into my hips, somehow wired directly to my brain. Soft moans, mixed with the deplorable gurps of someone struggling for oxygen, fuelled my need. I wrapped her loose ponytail in my fist and hauled her free of my spit-soaked length. Traced a fingertip from her cheek where tears had sprung and scooped the salty droplets into her mouth. Let her suck my fingers then replaced them with my cock and guided it deeper than before.

Her body jackknifed each time her throat bulged, but she soldiered on, coughing and spluttering. Even puppy-dog-eyed me, demure expression at odds with the depravity of her actions. Our dynamic had switched without me noticing. Her entire demeanour begged me to use her. So I did. Picked up speed. Sawed my cock in and out of her throat, completely withdrawing and spearing her lips with each savage thrust until it all became too much.

With a growl, I came. Splotched her tongue and lips with globs of spunk and she hungrily scooped and swallowed the lot, humming and purring around me to clean any remainder.

She let go, tucked her tits away and stood as I zipped up.

And that was it. No snuggles. No pleasantries. Just a blistering, throwaway sex act from out of the blue. We rounded the building into the clubhouse and conducted the interview over lime and sodas like nothing had happened, save for the flush on her upper chest.

At the end of the interview, I handed her my card and our fingertips brushed. Eyes met and I'm not sure if it was the desire behind mine or the need in hers, but I knew she'd call.

I desperately wanted to see her but waited her out. Couldn’t focus much on work without replaying our tryst. It took her a few days before she phoned. We made a dinner reservation, and when I hung up, I smiled. All good things come to those with patience; a lesson she's gradually learning to appreciate.

I swirl my tongue around and between each toe. Wrap my lips around the set and suck them all at once.

She sighs again and moans as I kiss and lick and stroke her feet while her toes dry under the cocoon of covers. I'm giddy with excitement at the prospect of working my way up her legs to feast on her wet pussy, but I force myself to take time. Go slow.

Because it drives her nuts.

I hop from foot to foot.

Kiss.

Nibble.

Lap.

Running fingertips up each instep, I circle her ankle as my kisses travel up to meet them. I work my way up her calf. Nuzzle the sides of her leg as I creep north. Kiss her knee. Her thigh. Feed off her shivers as I work all the way to her hips to brush her panties. Then drift whiskery caresses out to the fingertips of one hand and kiss each digit.

I take the first finger in my mouth. Then the next. Suck and lick each one, her breathing altering; quickening as I pay attention to her hands.

Nuzzling her palm, I drift kisses back across her tummy to the other hand and flutter my tongue over it. I kiss her wrist. Run my tongue in a line from there, down across her palm to her index finger. Take it in my mouth and suck it. I move to the adjacent finger, wrap my lips around it and suck. Wet it.

Her breath hitches once more as I pick up her hand and place it on her panties, dead centre, and let her wet digits tease. She scuffs and skims, the lightest touches, then more insistent as I watch from the edge of her underwear.

Walking kisses onto the material, I creep towards her exploring fingers. Catch her scent. The very same exquisite aroma that had filled the restaurant bathroom as we fucked.

Dinner had been her choice. Italian, tucked away off the main thoroughfare of the city. I wasn't sure if she'd dressed to impress or if a scoop neck cotton tee, balcony bra and leather miniskirt with knee high boots was standard fare. Either way, she could have been all three courses.

We swapped pleasantries. How I got into journalism after writing copy for a publisher. How she kicked the habit, returned home and begged Daddy for the chance to boost his club's profile. He wasn't keen at first using his daughter's assets but a trial run and a few thousand followers that increased footfall by fifteen percent soon quelled that concern.

They'd been on the up ever since, rather like my cock below the table as she twirled tagliatelle and slid it between the dusky gloss of her lips.

With main course over, she slipped away before dessert, leaving me nursing an erection at her swaying hips and eyeing every jealous man stealing glances.

If there was any doubt we'd end up fucking, she silenced it upon her return. Sashaying past the table and rounding it, she draped herself over my shoulders, slithering her hands to my lap. Her breath in my ear was hot and laced with need as she whispered:

"I've been such a bad girl." She opened her palm and spread her panties across my straining groin. "I masturbated in them. Right there in the bathroom. Came hard." Her teeth nipped my lobe. "And I think I need to be—" her tongue flicked across my ear with her breathy exhalation, "punished."

Raking dark polished fingernails up my chest as she stood, she returned to her seat. I glanced down. Brought fingertips to the still warm material and explored. The gusset was tacky and a thrill coursed my veins. I scraped a viscous stripe of arousal under my fingernail and lifted it for her to see. Caught her eye and sucked my digit clean, rolling the delicious gluey residue across my tongue before swallowing.

Throughout dessert, her panties practically burned a hole in my slacks. If the hardness of my cock waned at all, it was only for a minute at a time. Touching or catching the scent of her juices, or watching her seductively licking her spoon, had me rocketing back to full mast.

At one point she reached under the table between her legs and brought her fingers back up, coated in arousal. Wiping them on the edge of the spoon, her nectar pooled in the hollow before she brought it to her lips and tipped it into her mouth. The fluid oozed from the cutlery and she lapped it clean. I'm not sure I'd ever seen anything quite so brazenly erotic in my life.

My patience was stretched waiting for the bill. Her boot slid up my calf to the knee and she rested the heel on the chair between my legs. Inching the chunky sole towards my erection, she brushed left and right over my balls. I shuddered when she increased the pressure of her massage, grinding my tumescence.

I craved to whisk her home, shove her against the back of the front door, hike her skirt and feast on her slippery pussy as she gripped the frame, then fuck her into oblivion. And I wasn't anywhere near as impetuous as the youth of today.

I only found out what it was like for her when we'd paid, scurried from the lounge, and she diverted me into the disabled toilet near the entrance. No sooner had the lock engaged, her skirt was round her waist and her bare ass wriggled against me as I fumbled for the zipper.

Freeing my prick, I angled it, aligned it, and sunk into her wet cunt. All the way in. She pressed her palms to the wall and used that as leverage to buck on and fully off my shaft, while I used the tips of my fingers pressed to its base to hold it level for her onslaught.

She impaled herself time and again, bubble butt squishing the back of my hand with each thrust. I raised the free one and landed a stinging slap to one arse cheek. All she did was moan and beg for it again. Harder.

So I did.

Again and again, spanks rang around the tiny cubicle. Anyone outside waiting to use the facilities would be left with no illusion of what was going on. She wasn't quiet, emitting sharp yelps every time my palm landed. I yanked her knickers from my pocket, hauled her upright and stuffed them in her mouth. Shoved her forward and rained rhythmic, pent-up thwacks on to her reddening butt as I took over pounding her.

I peeled her glowing cheeks apart. Drizzled spit into her crease and massaged it in with a thumb. Wormed it in to the first knuckle. Then the second. She mewled into the balled-up garment. Rested one forearm on the wall and shoved her other hand between her legs, furiously masturbating until she stiffened and squawked under a muted gasp.

Her ring winked around my embedded thumb and that tipped me over the edge. I gave one last savage thrust and unloaded into her tight pussy, flattening her chest against the wall. She scrabbled for purchase and grabbed the disabled alarm cord as I groaned in her ear.

The piercing tone split the atmosphere and she frantically tugged it again to try and turn it off. No joy. It needed resetting from outside.

"Fuck!"

Hauling my thumb and still spasming cock from her grip, spunk splattered against her inner thighs as she yanked her skirt down and I unceremoniously tried to stuff my throbbing prick back in my underwear where the last few pulses pooled and stained.

There was a knock on the door. "Everything okay in there?" The silenced alarm left my ears ringing, adrenaline still spiking.

Bella called out to the mâitre d, "Yes, sorry. I stumbled and caught the cord."

“Oh, okay.”

We waited a moment, stifling giggles, pulses still thundering before she released the latch and peeked out. She snuck through the wide door into the entryway. I followed like a fucking teenager caught in the wrong room on prom night.

The mâitre d’ cast a knowing gaze in our direction and looked away; a clear sign of disapproval at our behaviour. I was past caring. We hotfooted from the restaurant and walked to her place, the glow keeping the cool evening at bay.

That night, I did get to feast on her delicious pussy and fuck her into oblivion, well into the early hours as she shrieked and came and came. The very same pussy that's barely an inch from my mouth under the covers and a protective layer of dampening cotton.

The urge to rip her panties off and devour what’s beneath bubbles to the surface and I fight to control it. Because I know all good things come…

… to those who wait.

Instead, I pick up her hand. Move it aside. Kiss my way to the waistband on one hip and grip it in my teeth. Tug down a short way. Nuzzle and skim my way to the other hip and ease that side down too.

Inch by inch, and with a little wriggling on her behalf, her skin is exposed. Each time I dust from one side to the other, I kiss her gradually appearing mons, pause above them to inhale, flitting my eyes up to the swell of her chest, then carry on until the material is bunched around her upper thighs, just below her bare slit.

Once more, I walk kisses out to her right hand. Kiss and nibble her fingers. Take them in my mouth and soak them. Lick and lap until they drip with saliva.

Popping my lips free, I place her palm on her pussy and watch as her fingers pick up where they left off, exploring a little deeper, nudging her folds.

I flick the duvet off us and kiss my way up over her tummy until I'm lying alongside her, reach behind me for the choker on the nightstand, slither it across the pillow and ease it beneath her head. She pauses her actions a moment as our eyes lock, I loop it up over her neck and fasten it, brushing her skin. I watch goosebumps form and chase them from shoulder to neck. Skim the tiny black band with my lips.

She's mine now. And she knows it.

I love how her throat moves when she swallows a sigh at the touches she administers. Love how her lips change shape to let out little huffs as she leaks around her exploring digits. Love learning what touches turn her on. Things that make her sigh. Make her inhale sharply. Make her drip.

I kiss her neck. Nip it. I promised myself I wouldn’t leave any more marks, but the opportunity is too good to pass up. She squeaks. Digs her fingers in a fraction deeper and I work my way to her ear. Pause and whisper:

“You can come whenever you feel the need. But tease yourself as long as possible before you do. If I think you’re going too fast, you know what I’ll do?”

She nods. Bites her lip. “You’ll stop me.”

“Yes. I’ll stop you. I probably won't. But I might. And if I do, I may not be gentle.”

Her voice hitches with an intake of breath. I know how much it pains her to wait. The fast-paced world of social media influencer is all now now now. Everyone bows to her beauty; her power. She always gets what she wants. Except with me. And she knows it. “I’ll please you.”

I nip her lobe and love how her breathing changes. It steps up a gear when I whisper, “Good girl.”

My lips on her neck and ears alter her touches. She teases her folds. Dips inside. Circles her clit as I walk fingertips up her side and draw a lazy arc around a breast. I kiss her neck and trace the circumference of the other. Drift caresses up and over each breast, skimming the caps.

Cup.

Squeeze.

My breath plays in her ear as she fingers herself deeper. Digs in, palm grinding her peeking clit. Her mouth falls open. I sense her end is near and whisper, “Stop.”

She leaves her hand in place but obediently ceases moving. Knows what I’ll do to her if she disobeys and doesn’t want more marks to add to last night’s. Or maybe she does. Her fingertips quiver and brush her clit.

I squeeze her breasts in turn. A warning. Trail fingers from one to the other. Love how she arches into my hand as I pinch each nipple.

I whisper for her to continue and nip her ear once more. A reminder to take it slow.

Her fingers circle. Skim. Brush. The clicks of wet arousal bouncing off the walls excite me. Her erratic breaths make my heart thump. I drift kisses from ear to choker to breast. Dust over her soft flesh, inhaling her heat as I go. Ascending the slope, I meet her gaze and run my lips up to enclose a nipple.

Her eyelids flutter as she nods, finds another gear in her actions, and I bite.

God her groan turns me on. As does her whisper to do it again, “Harder.”

I lap the crinkled peak, run my tongue to the other and circle it.

Swoosh. 

Capture.

Catch her eye.

Bite.

Her orgasm rises with her hiss. I let go. Shake my head and she stops.

She’s gradually learning that all good things come…

… to those who wait.

I lap her nipple to soothe it. Run kisses over her skin. Up to her throat. Trace a collarbone. Shoulder. Down to her breasts. Kiss and brush stubble across them as I forge a path south, pausing above her fingertips.

Breathing in her aroma, I smear her digits across my nostrils, wrap my lips around them and suck them clean of her juices.

Fuck. So tasty.

I walk my lips north again. Seek her mouth and kiss her hard. Tongues lance, her arousal shared. She restarts masturbating.

Pulling away, the shake of my head stops her in her tracks. She knows it’s too late. She’s been warned and sees it in my eyes.

With pained obedience, she slithers her hand from her pussy to the mattress. Her chest heaves when I trace the back of my fingertips over the bountiful mounds. Continuing over the flat of her impossibly smooth tummy, I come to rest cupping her equally smooth snatch.

Our eyes engage. My hand lifts. She tenses. I wait until she relaxes for a second then strike her cunt. The splat is chased by her deep hiss and she humps my palm as I rub the heat. “Jeesuusss that stings.”

Her breathing is unsteady. She’s still on the cusp. Growls and sucks in air. “Again. Please.”

I raise an eyebrow. Raise my hand. Watch the fear in her eyes well up alongside need, like she’s all nerve endings and lust. My hand descends fast and stops a few millimetres above her slit. She reflexively lifts to meet it and I shake my head again. Her hips drift to the bed. Settle. I lift and spank sharply, watching the expected and unexpected collide in her expression. She groans and curses, eyes ablaze.

Her moans turn to whimpers as I soothe. I lift my hand away. Six inches. Maybe more. Her hips track the motion upward and reconnect with my palm. Her expression hardens. Fierce. An act of bratty defiance.

She knows the outcome. Creeps her hips to the bed and splays her legs, offering her dripping centrepiece for my punishment. Her eyes saucer as I lift my palm. A foot. Two. Three.

We hold that position, breathing out of sync. I kiss a strand of pink hair from her cheek and launch my palm against her bare cunt. She yelps and clamps her thighs around my fingertips, tenting her knees, rocking and snorting as the heat rockets through her. I apply pressure with my elbow and her legs part again, another vicious slap shortly crashing home. She wails. “Fuck I’m c… close.”

My trapped hand is soaked. When she widens her knees a fraction, I trail my digits up to their apex and down to smear juices across her toes. Her shivers ripple and she sighs. Slides one foot then the other down across the sheets to lie prone again.

I sit up. Kiss my way down her side and lap the nectar from each toe. Slow and languid, she both hates and loves it.

Rising to straddle her body, I shuffle all the way along until I reach her chest. Nod down at her to restart touching herself. I cup and squeeze both breasts, pinch and twist her nipples before inching up to offer my firm tip to her lips.

She hungrily takes me. Opens her mouth and allows the flare of my cock to slip inside, feeding her a little more with each moment. I love how her lips wrap my hardness. How her groans vibrate as her fingers work faster.

I reach for the headboard. Grip it and slide my cock deeper. Pull it away, soaked in spit. Guide it back in. The gurgling noises are deplorably delicious as she gags a little, stuffed full at the extremity of my gentle thrusts.

I gradually pick up speed. Fully out. Fully in. Her excitement crests, my moans rising with hers, the end rocketing faster than I can gain control. I fight it but lose. Pull out, cock jerking, releasing thick wads of cum that pool on her cheeks and lips.

Her tongue seeks it and as my silky ribbons slither down her throat, she peaks, stiffens, holds her breath and shakes.

I watch her mouth change shape as her orgasm bursts. So fucking pretty. Her inhalations turn more needy and deeper, more hoarse, and her groans ring out as my cock gradually softens against her chin.

Her climaxes are so special to behold. I love them all. Love how she smiles after. How her breaths gradually normalise. How her scent lingers. And I love how we snuggle in the afterglow, lazily touching and kissing. Enjoying the beat of our hearts and the birdsong drifting through the window.

I wrap her in a hug, stroke her thigh and kiss her hair. I have no idea why she keeps coming back. Maybe when we disentangle and she leaves, that will be it. She’ll move on and I’ll be reduced to watching her wiggling in tight clothes on her Insta channel and reminiscing about the few times we shared something special. Something raw. Something electric.

Every breath is laced with her natural pheromones. It’s powerful. Erotic. Earthy. Moreish.

I sigh and rove her contented form, stroking. Nurturing. Whatever the outcome of whatever this is between us, one thing is certain.

All good things come.