“You’re mine, Harlow. My woman, my property, my queen, my fucking whore, if I so choose.” I glance down to my phone and remotely turn on music through the club’s speakers. It’s a slow, soulful song. “Now that that’s settled, dance with me.”1 “You’re fucking insane,” she mutters while rolling her eyes. I smirk. “Better get used to it, baby.”
