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Maybe, as Papa said, I can go after what I want with as much passion as I can conjure.
Or maybe I shouldn’t have crunched on the remaining ecstasy pill like it was a sweet.
It only made me sleepy, and I meant to do just that until Mum came to pick me up.
But when I woke up, I saw a scene I thought was a mere translation of my many dreams.
Forbidden dreams.
Fantasies.
That can’t be possible, however, because he’s within touching distance.
Because the warmth radiating off his body is bouncing off mine and rolling down in the valley between my breasts.
It’s creating a path to the bottom of my stomach and pooling between my thighs.
Just why is he so beautiful? Why did he have to steal from the stars and the sky—and me?
Why does he have the type of messy hair that falls over his forehead and begs for my fingers in it?
Why did he have the face and body of a model and the soul of a devil on his quest to win a popularity award?
And why, just why did I have to notice him?
It’s become virtually impossible to not look for him anywhere I go as if he’s bewitched me.
Maybe he has dark magic in his eyes.
Satanic rituals in his soul.
“I’m your kink?” he asks with slight bewilderment, but he’s smirking, those beautiful dimples creasing his cheeks.
Ever since I said those embarrassing words, the air has been thick with tension. Sexual, to be more specific.
The last thing I expected to exist between us.
From his side, at least.
But I see it, in his pants, the bulge that’s tenting against the fabric as a clear translation of his desire.
“I put ecstasy in that drink you had earlier,” I say instead of giving an embarrassing answer to his question.
Likeyou’re my only kink.
Oryou’re the reason I even have kinks.
That would be soul-crushingly humiliating. More than wishing for him to touch me, then stupidly proposing to him while I was dying of an allergic reaction.
“I had one, too,” I blurt. “A drink with ecstasy, I mean.”
I expect him to be mad, to glare at me like he usually does, but his smirk widens, and it’s now laced with sadism.
“I didn’t know you were the type who shags.”
“Then what am I?”
“The bitch type with an unhealthy dose of mean-girl endorphins.”
