If only she could say he was just her addiction.

She never cared for booze or cigarettes. Pot was wasted on her. Her vice has always been physical. Hands on hips and nails in skin and teeth and tongues and (mind)fucking until she’s spent.

Sex is what she craves. And he feeds her cravings.

Every taunt. Every tease. Every softly muttered “good girl” is a hit of adrenaline.

She’s always looking for her next fix.

She needs how he gets her. Wanting. Frazzled. There’s little she wouldn’t do for another taste.

It’s pure intoxication, and she’d drink from him to excess. Gorge herself on him and revel in the hangover.

And in that beautiful ache that follows, he knows she always wants more. Knows to chase her orgasm with relentless pounding.

Little quenches her thirst for him. He’s her hair of the dog incarnate—the best cure for what ails you is to have more of it.

If only she could say it’s just the rush. That’s he’s simply her drink of choice, her chosen poison, and she’s a sucker for pain.

If only.

But it would never be true.


190 words

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