Magdalena Kavinsky

Kavinsky didn't let nerves creep in as Poison touched him. He had said his hard limit. Everything else was negotiable, or for a price. So he let Poison touch him, his face, his neck. He leaned in and pushed up his shirt enough to kiss his stomach gently, then down, down, down to the fly of his pants. He opened the button and pulled the fly down with his mouth, his lips and teeth and tongue. It was nothing. A trick he'd picked up at some point along the way.