No. This truffle is downright indecent. It’s not good, the way my teeth scrape his fingers. It’s not good, the sweetness of chocolate and the salt of his skin. It’s not good, the way I have to press my thighs together to guard against the sensation building there and demanding relief. This is not foreplay. It’s work. We might be tricking our listeners, and now the darkness and proximity are tricking me, morphing my annoyance with him into some kind of deranged attraction. “Great,” I manage, and it’s really not good, the way I crave chocolate the rest of the week.
AAHH
