Olivie Blake

You can’t fix me,” she whispered to him, her mouth tracing his neck. Do you understand, do you know what you hold in your hands, do you know how readily it breaks?

“I don’t see anything to fix,” he said

He was a lover of all things beautiful, all things sensual, though he loved them best as a caretaker, a keeper.

She just found the whole thing very strange, and he’d stuck in her brain a little bit, embedding himself there like a thorn. Like something on the tip of her tongue or hovering just at the edge of her periphery.