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You can't even form words anymore, you're so far gone. It's a pathetic picture that you paint. You're lower than low—you're a hyena, just a slab of fresh meat for the second prince of the Sunset Savannah to savour. You're not even a prime cut; you're just the scraps, only enough to tide him over. You're a guilty pleasure at best, but more than likely you're just a warm body to him.
More tears spill down your cheeks, now, as something cracks in your chest. You heave in a desperate breath, trying your hardest to stay composed for him, but the dam has burst. The pleasure, which was so overwhelming before, numbs out into an afterthought, and you sob.
Just look at you. You're pathetic. How can he even bear to face you when he does this? How can he stomach something like you? How can someone like him ever want anything to do with trash like you?
You feel his ministrations pause, and your heart freezes in your chest. His thumbs, elegant but callused—beautiful yet rugged, just like the rest of him—brush under your eyes, swiping your tears away as they fall. You look up at him, laid bare, and spy the furrow in his strong brow. Shit. Shit, you're done for.
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