No PDA.

Don't stick to each other like glue.

Private topics stay in texts.

Cate's own Ten Commandments when stepping a toe's crest outdoors. Inside your car's leather backseats, strait alleyways, and a puff bed, rules softened.

Anyplace bearing a mass greater than a monogamous couple's weight though? They secured a front row seat to a live reenactment of these act-platonic principles.

But the fourth rule should have been glaringly obvious.

Don't flirt with others.

Could you blame her for suggesting? Implementing needed when a brute was hogging your waist. Veiny branches from that stranger's hands meshed your wrinkled clumps with every sway to the rhythms enticing hooks. Laughs shared, faces intimately close, and Cate saw a bunny fall prey.

Her bunny.

"You're fucking coming with me."

A simmering touch warped you to be a dog chasing its tail, pursuing the string of guidance ungloved digits provided.

Wrung on your flesh, incarceration of the skin, little care was shown for your staggered pace. Hauling you through this throng coated in electric blues and neon pink, and from that nameless piece of shit, is her main duty.

Teaching you a lesson was next.

Intoxication nearly thwacked out when your lumbar smashed the rigid timber. "Why'd you let him get his hands on you?" spat in a fiery breath, muffled by the party's din a door away.

Each inquiry drew the tip of her nose near, and the taunt, "Was it to get my attention, hm?" pinched the narrow distance to a suffocating degree.

"Is it 'cuz you're tired of hiding? So exhausted we can't do this in public?" The scandalous distance. The current sordid grip pasting your hips to hers.

"You got so sick of it you resorted to some temporary bliss, forgetting I was right there, watching the whole fucking thing."

"Guess I'll just remind who you belong to," ensued a locking click from the knob. A bare touch on your wrist, "Be a good girl and get in that bed," and you've hurled yourself at one.

A word from her and obeying is all you can do.