try to breathe.
Behind me, his voice floats up.
“One-fifty to Holly Riot.
“One-seventy-five to Sierra.
“Seventy-five grand to The Great Savior of Broke Musicians…”
In the reflection of the glass window,
he's standing tall again,
towering behind me.
My next breath stalls in my throat.
Then I feel his hand,
sliding up my thigh.
“You don’t need to worry about this shit.”
His fingers trail higher.
And higher.
“I know what you need.”
I can’t move.
My eyes are chained to his wicked stare in the reflection.
He says it to the glass,
but the words ruffle my hair?—
“You don’t gotta run from it, baby.
“You know it’ll make you feel better.”
He traces a fingertip over the center of my panties.
My eyes shut.
Pleasure. Orgasm. Sensation.
They’re not gifts.
They’re traps.
And he knows how to set them.
His finger drags along the seam of me.
The cotton’s soaked in seconds,
heat bleeding through.
