An evening's dalliance
He smirks like he knows exactly what I'd like to do to him tonight.
My hips are a cocked and loaded gun and his hands are the trigger.
He pretends his beer is my lips and pulls
It all down his throat as quickly as he can.
I tease the rim of my cocktail glass and
God. The eye contact.
I swear his brown eyes are seeing into the depths of my soul and for just a minute I consider following him into hell.
He tells me people are a game to him and I think about his clever magician hands and how it would feel for him to dismantle me.
I hope he will take me apart.
There is no chance I will let him.
Everyone in the club wants us both and we lap up the adoration like dessert
But we gyrate back to each other once and then a dozen times.
We are magnets without a sense of public decency.
This particular brand of intoxication is better than drinking has ever been and twice as deadly.
And then somehow my hand is pulling on the chain he wears around his neck and
His lips are on mine and its everything
I've been wanting all night.
The brick of the graffitied alleyway presses smudges of spray paint passion across my back.
Solid, unyielding, I press back.
I claw my approval across his back in an act of vengeance.
By the end of the night I am left lying dressed in nothing but my emotional armour
And my knee socks.
I am on my back and pulsing and moaning around his fingers.
This act is an act of taking.
I reclaim ecstacy in the shape of his name.
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