“Or maybe just don’t eat so many fucking Twizzlers, honey.” “Smokin’ or Twizzlers. Pick one, baby,” I ordered with a cocky grin. I had a major oral fixation—no fucking surprise there. Before Ryder, I chain-smoked as if my life depended on it. My life didn’t, but my temper usually did. He hated it and made a very valid argument for why I should slow down. “I traded smokes for Twizzlers because you asked, you know. This is your beast in the makin’.” “Or maybe I’ll give you something else to put in that damn mouth,” he retorted. Oh, sassy. I liked it.
