ideas are running through my head as my hungry eyes graze up and down his body. “Okay, I’m listening.” “But!” He’s still swinging that lasso in the air this whole time, his biceps bulging in the effort as he keeps it swinging around in an impressively perfect circle, never once breaking or lowering or becoming unstable. “If I do lasso you, then you become my toy for the rest of the day to do whatever I want with.” My heart races at his words. Why does losing also sound like winning?
