He is reserved as he leads me up the stairs and down the hall. I feel the tension in his fingertips, the pressure against the small of my back, and I know his control is tenuous.
I wonder what it would take to leave it in shambles like cast off clothing on the floor.
He steps ahead, pushes through a doorway. A rough yank on my wrist pulls me inside; insistent hands press me against the wall.
His smile is so devilish that I smell sulfur and then taste only him.
He is whiskey and chocolate spiced with bad decision.
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