The Witch

“Well then, witch,” he growls without taking his eyes off my lips right in front of him, close to his face. “You’ll kiss me. And I’ll stand up. Want it like that?”

“No.”

“Don’t you want to?”

“I don’t want to.”

“Aren’t you afraid?” His voice gets rougher; a palm presses in with force—not hurting, just indicating what could hurt. “That I’ll take it myself?”

“I’m not afraid.”