In the middle of that ungodly busy little bar we stood, you stroking my pinky and giving me a look as if I was crazy to be stricken or smitten by li’l ol’ you.
Last week when you backed into the kitchen and demanded the statement you knew I had for you, in the midst of my frantic madness, in front of half the restaurant staff…all I could muster and grunt was some pedestrian expletive.
After today if you call me out in front of others I will deliver the goods you seek because I’m fairly certain that you want me to instigate your beautiful destruction by announcing our dark tryst. Assured that I’m the one to be the catalyst for your impending pleasure, the one to feed ALL of your senses instead of just the handful, your nonchalance is brazen as is your persuasion in making me do the dirty work to sweep away the filthy mess you know is about to occur.
We spoke briefly earlier but writing it makes it cement.
If and when I’m inside your body I will, without intent, truly ruin you. I will make you feel ways you cannot quite yet imagine and for every statement you utter that brings me down to earth I will trigger a response from your wicked, wily body that will be so villainous you will beg to be tied down as to not writhe out of your own skin. (Your spells have equal measure in torturing me as well.)
You’re all about calling bluffs, and I, love, am the last one you want to do that with, yeah?
Or am I the first one?