The image of her from last night, her beautiful, curvy body, spent the night in my dreams. I've seen women in less and not responded like this - obsessive thoughts about peeling the scraps of material away and getting my hands and mouth on her. She's fucking gorgeous. I call her cute, laugh at how petite she is, but she's sexy as hell. Shit. Stop thinking about the way her tits looked, half-hidden and spilling out over the black lace. Avery's doing the right thing by keeping me at arm's length. She’d have sex with a man who’s an emotional wreck with nothing to give her, and she deserves more. Avery's younger, at uni, will undoubtedly find a guy more suitable than me. It's not as if we'll wait for each other if I go on tour. Why should she? But for some inexplicable reason, I'd like Avery in my life longer; and allowing her close then hurting her would be the wrong thing to do. Avery appears with my t-shirt folded over her arm, her brown hair damp.
