His mouth moves next to my ear, delivering a rumbling whisper, “You were right before. We made a deal. No sex while Wicker gets his shit worked out. But my shit is that you’re under my goddamn skin. I want to be done with it. Done with you. There’s no treatment for this. There’s no group on campus where I can go to talk about the insatiable need I have to fuck my Princess, and that urge is worse than jonesing for a hit of Scratch.”
