By Colleen Foley
Cider Mountain is a “quaint” little ski town in
Vermont. It’s so quaint the only people who ever ski there are the
locals and they like it that way. I’d spent the last few months going
from one end of New England to the other staying in backwaters and back
of backwaters Seth would never think to look in.
I needed time to sift through the BDSM and catharsis scented powder my mind had become after Kaia.
I had a forkful of apple-rum pie, mounded with whipped cream, halfway to my lips when He walked in the door, grinning.