Play

“Let’s play” he says, all grin and glinting canines. My reaction is instinctual: survival. I lunge for his throat, for the thick jugular full of life and heat, biting down on skin and heartbeat before he can do the same. As teeth graze skin and I taste sweat and musk along my tongue, I wish for claws over these weak cuticles, for the ability to sink down into flesh, deep to the bone, to carve my presence there. So he never forgets.

But already I feel the vibrations of his laughter against my tongue, and he lifts me bodily, still attached to him by the throat, fingers pressing between the bars of my ribs. I bite harder to tease out the russet taste of his body, while his fingers move north to find my own snappable neck, oblivious to my hands grappling against his wrists.

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