He is firm, rough hands and hot, whiskey breath, a roller coaster plunge into darkness. His kisses taste like regret, despair, but his fingers push their way inside you, a sweetly throbbing ache, and your heart races and your blood sings.   He isn't gentle, but you didn't expect he would be.  There was warning in his eyes as you let your clothes fall to the floor, offering yourself up like a prize, feeling like a stupid little girl, awkward, embarrassed. His eyes drank you in, lingered on your breasts, your thighs and he sneered and told you to go. But you don't follow orders. 

From: [identity profile] juliet-demarcus.livejournal.com


Wow! Nice! And you're writing again! I still haven't read The Hunger Games, so I don't even have a clue who Haymitch is, but this was well done, and hot. :) I enjoyed! Hope you post more writings soon.
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