Trisha Wolfe

“I can feel your excitement,” Grayson says, smile stretching. “Or is that arousal?” He sniffs the air, making me flush.

I’m tethered so tightly to him, I can feel him in my veins.

I tug my towel higher, wrap it tighter.

“Make sure those thighs are squeezed just as tight,” he remarks.

“I want to live. And I want you.”

I won’t accept anything less than her; she’s my other half.

My breath catches as his fingers make contact with my inner thigh.

She’s the artist and I’m her canvas

“There you are,” he says.

The primal Neanderthal inside me rears up, London in danger of a brutal fucking where I stake my claim like the carnal animal she makes me.

It’s the lovely bad things that steal into our thoughts in the middle of the night and tempt us across the line between good and evil.