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He sees my attention shift, and he dangles a carrot into my line of vision, thinking he’ll make me lose focus. The problem is, I’m not all that into carrots these days. I’m favoring whiskey and leather.
“Keep up, Princess. Kill me, don’t kill me. At least you’ll be warm. You’re with me tonight.”
I want a man who smells like leather, looks like a glass of bourbon, and who calls me princess while drawing on my back.
I’m alive, but am I really living? Or have I just been scuttling along, putting everyone else first?
