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Summary
Bakszén has been bombarding his entourage with selfies ranging from ridiculous to sexy to downright pornographic. Durmonyás, to his sexually frustrated chagrin, has been tasked with image control.
“Really? A rose tattoo on his—” Ropogán made a face at the phone held at arm’s length. Durmonyás didn’t have to look at the screen; he’d memorized both the stupid tattoo and the arse it was applied to. The stupid, muscular, nicely curved arse. “Why is he even sending me these?”
“He’s sending them to everyone,” Durmonyás said gloomily. “He likes feedback. You’re lucky he doesn’t try to get you to reply.”
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