You were on your knees before her. It wasn’t planned. You didn’t ask for it, but there she was, standing in front of you.

She cupped your chin, forcing you to look up at her. Her breath was shallow, pupils dilated in the dim light of the room.

“You’ve got a lot of nerve,” she said, voice low, like it was only for you.

Your heart raced. The tension thickened.

“But I’m not interested in that kind of submission.” She leaned down, her lips brushing against your ear, her voice turning gravelly: “I offer worship.”

Her lips finally met yours, fierce, possessive, all-consuming, her hands tangling in your hair as she tilted your head back. She kissed you like she was taking something precious—something she owned.

When she pulled back just enough to let you gasp for air, she whispered: “And me? I don't just take. I devour.”