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In my head, I’m a slut. But in reality, I just read a lot of spicy books.
“Shit,” the strange man curses behind me. “Ashwater! Get down here, your damsel is in fucking distress.”
Would you rather that your one night stand kidnapped you and took you to a castle full of monsters, or that you’re really hallucinating in a mental hospital amidst a divorce-induced psychotic break?
“You were busy,” I say. “I’m not going to wait around for any man. My time and attention belong to people who are thinking about no one but me.” Without warning, his hand shoots out and lands on the wall behind my head, boxing me in. He leans down so his mouth is mere inches from mine and bares his teeth. “Then I should get every single minute of your fucking attention.”
“Good. If you knew half the things I’ve thought about doing to any male who looks at you, you should be afraid. As long as I’m breathing, no one will fucking touch you, because I’ll kill them and fuck you in their blood.”
I want you to fuck yourself on my fingers. I want to watch you come before I’ve barely even touched you.” She gasps and blinks at me. I watch the calculation take place behind her eyes. She’s wondering if I’m serious, and probably if she’s willing to let go of her broken self-image long enough to find out if she likes this. I half expect her to shrink away, but instead she keeps her eyes on mine as she rolls her hips and slides an inch lower on my hand. She rolls her hips again, rising back up, then sinks even deeper. Holy fucking shit.
“If you were inside my head, you wouldn’t think I was put together. The opposite, actually. I feel like my brain fractures around you. I’m a fucking mess.”
