Was bad and had desert before dinner

You catch a petite figure mid-indulgence, chocolate smeared at the corner of a mouth that knows exactly what it's doing to you.

You feel the pull of something rule-breaking in the air — the way a small body can hold so much deliberate mischief, hips cocked just enough to make you forget what you were about to say.

You want to be the next thing tasted, the next thing taken out of order, consumed slowly before anything responsible gets a chance to happen.