"You know this is wrong." "Then stop looking at me like you want me to ruin you." I wrote a story about wanting him--about tangled sheets, locked doors, and a mouth that ruined me in the best way. He returned it with red ink and a warning: "Be careful. This fantasy is dangerous." But fantasies don't burn like this. They don’t watch me like I’m already undressed. And they sure as hell don’t whisper my name like it’s a sin and a prayer in the same breath.