Eddie presses me up against the railings in front of my boarding house. "Lucinda," he says, his face pained, "A man's got needs." He kisses my neck, imploring. We've been stepping out a couple weeks, but he's starting to get handsy, taking liberties. That's New Orleans for you. His pulse quickens.
"Of course you do, baby," I purr, and his hand slips under my chemise, fingertips brushing my flesh. All I can think of is the warmth of it, coursing through him, and how it will spurt from his neck in red rivulets. The fuck does Eddie know about needs?
