Taste of Poison

My thighs clench involuntarily. I hate my body for it.

“I hope he made you drip,” Wyatt murmurs, lips

brushing the shell of my ear.

“I hope you were so fucking wet for him that it ran down your thighs, slick and messy, the way you always got for me when I talked filthy in your ear. I hope he licked it off you—tongue flat and greedy—before he flipped you over and took you from behind,