Up in Smoke, Page 8
T. M. Frazier
They’re handcuffs.
A pair for each wrist.
Revulsion and loathing cross over his tanned face, twisting his thick lips.
How did I ever think this man was beautiful?
“Please. Don’t hurt me. I’ll give you whatever you want.” I beg, hating the way I don’t recognize my own voice.
