He may not be endowed with a head but he clearly makes up for it in…other departments. Out of all the things I would’ve guessed this malevolent presence (that evidently has been plaguing our town for centuries) would want to do with me, getting it on would’ve been very low on the list.
An eight-foot-tall man clad all in black, muscles so big that his clothes stretch taut across his body, and nothing but that goddamn pumpkin on his shoulders.
He slows his movements and I practically growl from frustration. He laughs. Cocky bastard. “Try that again, my sweet thing.” “Please make me come, Master.” “Good girl.”
Let it hereby be known that I, Arletta Harrington, may not have believed in Death, or soul mates, or destiny, but I have always believed in love. True, pure, passionate love.
So noted.
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