"We could be friends, at least," Miguel added, the words feeling thin even as they left his lips.
For some unwarranted, unnecessary reason, his body chose that exact moment to betray him.
He felt the sudden, heavy heat of his pulse migrate downward; the zipper of his trousers protruded forward in a rushing, rhythmic excitement that he couldn't suppress.
'Maybe his body knew the solid truth, that the friendship request was nothing but a bluff'.
True friends couldn't possibly manifest the carnal, sweat-slicked fantasies he had curated in the wild theatre of his brain.
Before he could even attempt to mask the hardening bulge, Fedora noticed as a flicker of recognition crossed the boy's face.
'This man never ceased to come up with a new, mind-blowing, and daring performance'.
It was the catalyst Fedora needed; he decided right then to kick into his 'bad bitch' mood.
If Miguel wanted to play naughty, two could play that game, and Fedora intended to win.
