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“Really? I simply assumed you enjoyed dwelling in darkness.” She elbows me in the ribs. “Now isn’t the time for your sarcasm.” “There is no bad time for sarcasm.” “A funeral.” “You’re kidding. A funeral is the best time for sarcasm.”
Maybe if I’d thought with my brain instead of my libido, I wouldn’t be strapped naked to a chair while my masked stalker trails the edge of a knife over my skin.
Jesus. What the hell is wrong with me? How did I go from a boring, celibate, assistant professor to a captive who allows her stalker to make her come with his weapons?
