“You smell nice. what’s that about, mm?”

Daniela’s chin tilts over your shoulder, auburn hair spilling over your chest in chalky waves. Gloved hands slide down from your collarbone to your pelvis, settling against where the overbearing ache coils sharp in your gut. Pressing lightly to feel the twitch of muscle, the jump beneath your sweaty skin.

And, oddly enough, it fascinates her.

“..oh-ho? My little lamb’s cramping.” She whines, low and throaty, though the sound is far from sympathetic. “Poor thing is on her cycle, and failed to warn me. Oh, nonono, that simply just won’t do.”

Clicking her tongue, she presses herself tighter against your backside. Nose pressed tight into the crook out your neck, sucking up the metallic scent that rolls off your flesh in overwhelming waves. Eyes roll at the flavor of it. The phantom taste.

It’s almost like a drug to her—scratch that, it is.

“What to do with you…”