You’re killing me—
       sending phrases that paint bodies

       and whisper midnight madness into my ear.

Your voice pours honey
     in all the wrong places,
     makes promises that pulse hard
     against every inch of resistance left in me.

You started this—
    I’m just returning fire,
    softly setting flames
    to nerve-endings,
    knowing exactly
    where you hide
    the matches.

I've had weeks to plan this.

I’ve gone over every touch,
                every move,
   every inch of your body,
   and how I'll worship it

   when I finally get you alone.

Now squirm for me, Mari,
    taste the smoke,
    beg for mercy
    or for none—
    either way,

    next time I won’t stop until you’re ashes.