He had a great butt, dark and chiseled as hell. I secretly called him Jason. Jason is such a solid name. Sounds like a guy who brings you to orgasm then whispers “good girl”, like he didn’t do all the work. The kind of guy that has an angled face and speaks just a little french. He calls beef with pasta “beef stroganoff” that day he cooks for you. A man that leans his elbow on his knee and leans in towards your face when he gets seriously passionate, especially about Wilbur Smith’s books, A A Gill or Josiah Wasonga’s pudding. The kind of man that jogs when it’s dark and it drizzles. Jason means ‘healer’, which is pertinent because without him I’m ailing.