Heat sticks to the skin here. Nights stretch too long. Maybe that's why I write the way I do.

Not clean. Not polite. Desire isn't tidy. It spills. It stains. You know that.

I don't write safe love stories. I write what happens when you can't stop touching. When you shouldn't, but you do anyway. When your body says yes before your mouth does.

And you-reading this-you're part of it now. My words, your pulse. My hunger, your skin.

I don't promise sweetness. I promise fire. And maybe you'll come back for more.