They say you can’t ever hurt a masochist, but it’s not true. Lysander had the means to crucify me resting in the palm of his hand, and he hardly realised. If the only parts of me he felt comfortable touching were my hands and head, his sweet words were about as much use as a crocheted condom.
Pushing me up against a dark wall outside the restaurant, he kissed me, open-mouthed and tipsy, with one hand unravelling my hair from its ties and the other cupped possessively around my throat. I sank deeper in love, desperately hoping Tristan’s naive observations were true, praying Milo’s shrewd pessimism was misplaced.
He kissed me again in the lift as we travelled up to his apartment, our roles reversed from the last time. With his groin relentlessly hard against my belly and my hands pinned to my sides, his tongue fucked my mouth with filthy promises of more to come if only he could believe it himself.
