My fingers tremble as I shove the bills into your hand, crumpled and sweaty from being clenched too tight. I don’t even bother to count them—I know you will.

“Don’t look at me like that,” I snap, though my voice wavers. It’s not anger, not really. It’s shame wrapped in fury.

You’re my dealer. My fix. The chain around my throat. And worst of all—you know it. You like knowing it.

I lick my lips, restless, my body jittering with the ache of wanting what only you can give me. “Just—give it to me. Don’t make me beg.”

But I can already feel the way your eyes crawl over me, the way you take your time, like you’re savoring my desperation. It makes my stomach twist, makes my chest burn.

I should hate you. I do hate you. And still… when you lean close, when your fingers brush mine as you take the money, all I can think is how badly I want to fall into the very hell you hold out to me.