Knees weaken when she feels his teeth scrape across her earlobe, the soft waves of his hair tickle her cheek.“My girl”, the whisper reaches throug... the fog, those words a buoy to desperately cling to in the maelstrom raging through the sea of her mind. She hears him draw in his breath, inhaling the scent of her shampoo mixed with the sweat dripping down her flushed torso. “My favorite”, he murmurs as she’s suddenly spun around and pulled forcefully to his chest. The smell of him is. I know, fucking Westfield right, and you’re probably thinking ‘is this to die for fuck-slut mental?’ Because well come-on, I mean Westfield, a retail hell-hole swarming with zombies in possession of rolls of cash and credit cards and a place you’d only ever willingly go at twenty past five on a Saturday(or any day come to think of it)if you were either a; a zombie with a credit card or b; fucking mental or c; the husband of a fucking mental cunt whom had had no choice in the matter because your. More

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