Does It Hurt?

by H.D. Carlton

I can still smell you on my fingers, despite washing you clean of me. Now tell me how the hell you expect me to find peace when you’re invading every one of my goddamn senses?”

“If worshiping you is what you ask, I’d be happy to spend the rest of my life on my knees,” I tell her, my voice dipped so low, it’s nearly unrecognizable.