“Hair the color of a raven’s wing, eyes the color of glaciers,” he’d said to me more than once, stroking a hand over my widow’s peak, making love to me like I was his possession—because I was. Reflecting back on it, what we did couldn’t qualify as lovemaking. Clint and I were like hot oil kissing water. Gasoline crooking its finger at an open flame. We came together like animals in heat, marking and pissing over our territory. And love had everything, yet nothing, to do with it.
Ohh it's gonna be like that yeah? Damn. No room for breathing, we just gonna fucking roll eh?
