There was no need for us to talk about things. There was no need for her to apologize or ask for a second chance or explain or any of that shit. It wa... my fault. I was the one who'd screwed up, not her. It was my fragile male ego and the Madonna/whore syndrome.Most men wanted their women to be a lady in public and a whore in the bedroom. I was no different. The problem was that I went further beyond that. I only wanted Drea to be a whore in the bedroom when I was the only one there. There was. ”She hugged me enthusiastically, “You don’t know how badly I want you to love me physically, too.” She giggled, “I don’t think Mary and my newfound ‘Sarabande’ are going to make it through the night ... if you know what I mean?”“So, I’m just third in your heart?” I asked playfully.She inhaled deeply, with her mouth open, “Nooo! I didn’t mean it that way! Ughhh.”I hugged her, chuckling, “Now you see how easy it is to misinterpret an innocent proclamation of someone’s feelings! I fully expect you. More

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