Nocticadia

by Keri Lake

A text from Bee popped up, startling me enough, the phone slipped from my fingers, but I caught it before it hit the floor. And in doing so, I unintentionally clicked the submit button.

Get this girl a pop socket because the amount of times she drops hey phone

“You think they’re staring at you because you’re poor?” He buried a smirk in his drink and tipped back a long swill that emptied the glass. His jaw flexed with the clenching of his teeth as he swallowed. “The wealthy possess an insatiable appetite for the rare and priceless. They stare because you’re the only thing worth staring at.”

Calling her beautiful was like calling the sun lukewarm. She’d blazed like the hottest part of a flame in that dress. And fuck me, I’d felt the heat.

“I don’t believe you’re a murderer.” His brow winged up, and he strode off in the direction of the exit. “And so the moth befriended the flame.”

My phone slipped out of my hands, clattering to the floor.

Again ... This bitch. The author needs beyter ways to move the stoyalong

“And because I’m a selfish prick who has to live with the fact that I cannot have you to myself, I’m going to ruin you so that any boy who comes after me will leave you deeply unsatisfied, and you’ll be left fucking your own fingers, desperate to remember the time you had your professor’s face between your legs.”

“Here, I thought it was the moth who would succumb to the fire.”

Without warning, he prowled toward me, grabbed me by the back of my neck, and dragged me to his lips.

She was the warmth of the sun on a cold and rotting corpse. The first breath after a lifetime of death.

The poetryyyy

The very thought sprouted cruel and vile schemes, like keeping her in one of the cells below. Caging her like one of my little moths.

Okay joe goldburg

He was moody, like rainy days and bitter coffee. Sensual whispers in dark corners and the slow burn of fine whiskey.

“Good girl,” he whispered, his palm still pressed to my mouth.

If Heaven existed, I'd found it in those ancient, dark hallways, under cold misty skies with autumn's wet leaves sticking to the soles of my boots, in the scent of coffee and old books. And him. My moody and devilishly handsome professor.

“That I would kill for you without a beat of hesitation, or remorse. And yet, at the same time, I could be reduced to nothing more than a pile of ash without you. I’m weak for you, Lilia.”

My dark sea. The mystifying depths that both captivated and terrified me.