she’s frozen with a knife to her throat again,
whispering—
Don’t fall, don’t fall, don’t fuckin’ fall.
The space between us shrinks,
and he slides his wet thumb into his mouth,
sucking the pad slow,
smirking slower.
A devastating, cocky,
you-want-it-come-get-itsmirk.
He pulls his finger back,
licks his bottom lip,
still tasting me, still starving.
My grip wraps the edge of the counter,
knuckles white.
My thighs twitch to close, but he’s in the way,
so my knees press into his sides.
It stirs in him, and he grabs my hips,
dragging me closer,
pulling me flush to him,
needing me wrapped around him.
His fingers sink into my skin,
his head falling to mine,
where his lips hover open,
breathing rough into my mouth.
“You gonna hate me tomorrow for this?” he whispers.
I sneak my finger into the bowl,
dip it into the custard.
Then I paint his bottom lip?—
one golden swipe
across his perfect fucking mouth.
