I told myself she was just something pretty to pass time with, but the first moment I saw her, I knew she was my wife. Not by law. Not by ring. By fate. I’ve been with women.
Had them in every room I walked into. But none made me feel this way. I see a man look at her too long, and suddenly I’m picturing funerals. She’s my drug.
The first time didn’t feel like much, but then I wanted more. More of her voice in my ear. More of her legs wrapped around my waist. More of her scent on my sheets, her bite on my neck.
Now I can’t stop. I take her in like smoke. Hold her in my lungs longer than I should. A rare gem, that burns blue, and I crave the heat, even when I know it’s killing me. I should’ve left her alone.
But I’ve never had that kind of discipline. Not when she touches me like I’m not dangerous.
Then she likes to say I’m ‘Not her type’…
I like that. I like a challenge. Now I’m about to make her see exactly what her type really looks like. Whether she’s in denial or not.
