It was an irrational fear, something like a superstition that each time Dante put his hands on me, something elemental changed in my physiology. I didn’t like his hand on my throat or my hand in his, so why had I let him do that to me? Why had I leaned into that strong collar just to feel my heart beat faster? It hinted of darker, deviant things I wasn’t ready to think about, let alone confess any kind of liking for.
