
Whenever you sleep over and leave your knickers in my washing basket, you make a creep of me.

I reach out for you in the still of the morning, press my face into your candy floss blonde.

Your eyes narrow at me as you storm past. You stride back and demand to know: ‘Do you drink?’

A chick with a dick grip on the neck of a bottle of wine is probably one of the hottest things. (That’s it. That’s all I have to say.)

Throw me on the back of your motorcycle, Svet. I wanna feel the warm metal vibrate against my vulva.