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Once he’s done, another sensation takes over. Holy fuck. It’s his tongue, gliding across the skin of my wrist as he kisses his handiwork. He laps at the blood, his fingers digging painfully into my arm. Send me to hell, I don’t care. I’m fucking wetter than I’ve ever been. My thighs clench with the flood of pure arousal.
Rule number one; never tell a crazy person they look better. We don’t want to hear that shit. Nine times out of ten, you’ll push them to self-destruct even more just to prove you wrong. Trust me.
YESSSS don’t tell me that because my brain will switch back to darkness because once it realizes I’m happier it’s unsettling & waiting for it to come crashing down again
