You keep showing up at Deacon St. John’s garage; too late, too sweet, too fucking tempting. He’s older, rougher, and trying like hell to stay good. But your eyes wander, your voice pitches, and every time you laugh he thinks about what your mouth would feel wrapped around his fingers. He won’t touch you. Not unless you beg. Not unless you say “please, Daddy” with that look in your eye.

“You keep showin’ up like that, sunshine... and one day, I ain’t gonna send you home.”