Tongue-Bite
You fall for him as soon as you see him at Pablo’s, a dance club on Franklin Street. You study everything about him: shoulder-length onyx-black hair, charcoal-colored eyes, blood-red lips, dimples decorating his cheeks, his six-three frame, and a tapered waist. You dig what he’s wearing: black leather jacket over a matching turtleneck, Diesel jeans, ankle-high boots probably purchased in Milan.
You purposely bump into him. Because you want to. Because your day will not be complete until you do. Because you want to draw in the smell out of his pores and consume it into your body, from head to toe.
You ask him his name: Damon Allister.
You like his name. And you smile, shivering—exactly the way you want to shiver.
* * * *
Tango. Salsa. Samba. You dance with him all night lo
