His arm is in my mouth before I can do anything about it. My teeth hook on, teasing at first, and then not.
“Fucking Christ.” His forehead crumples with the effort of speech. “Knock it off.”
His phone, face down on the headboard, glows. Good thing I can’t see it. I just imagine it, pixels alight with deceit. I want to chomp down hard, to break the skin, to taste the wound, the blood on my teeth. This isn’t about Lorena. This isn’t even about Danny. This is about time and temptation, relationships and the reality of feeling so fucking trapped. It’s a statement of sorts, a memo. A warning.
What could he do to win me as he once did? Roll through flaming hoops, swashbuckle across continents? Would the sharpness of his sword even matter?
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