Maybe he was psychotic. It had happened before. Esmeralda. She had a beautiful name. A beautiful soul. His fingers tingled with the memory of touching...her face. Soft skin on her cheeks, the slight ridge of a scar on her forehead, pliant lips, heat from her neck. "I shouldn't have said anything," he had told her. "No, you shouldn't have," she had agreed. But he had. How could he not? Eleven years would pass before he woke again. She would be in her late forties. The barely noticeable silver. “Do you have a condom?” His man-meat was like steel beneath the soft flesh of her inner thighs. Her pussy juice soaked into the material of her knickers and the room began to smell like her, like sex. Harry ran his hands up her thighs. “I don’t Sweetheart. I never thought it would get this far”. Her face twisted in dismay. Harry eased her off his lap. “We can do other things.”With his boxers sticking straight out like a tent in front of him, Harry padded over to the fridge. He took out a box. More

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