Every second I'm inside him has me consumed in fire. In liquid hot, molten lust only he's responsible for creating in me. Because he’s the fire, the heat and embers that ignite a blaze sure to send us both up in smoke. It's dangerous and toxic and feels so right, it has to be wrong. Because when a fire is burning, you don't dive head-first into the flames. You get the fuck out, run the other way, and do everything in your power to make it out alive. I don't care though. Not now. He's an inferno, and I'm more than happy to be scorched by his flames.
