The Golden Gun
He was dangerous. He was Midus. His gun was made from gold-- quite literally. And he fired, piercing her heart.
In which she, an actress on Broadway, finds herself tangled in the one of the illicit families of New York.
My heart leapt in my chest, beating at an inhuman pace. It was a drum, pounding loudly, burning my eardrums; it had an irregular rhythm.
Shakespeare, the man himself, could not write a sonnet describing the turmoil of emotions running through my veins.
It was a severe addiction.
I was addicted to him.
I was so tempted to the forbidden touch that burned me so badly in the end. I craved and yearned his every touch.
He skimmed his fingers over the back of my neck. Goosebumps were left by his coveted touch. He was Midus and I would wither away under his possession-- diminish to a mere nothing.
"Listen, Grace," he spoke in my ear, his warm breath like sunshine in the coldest winter. "Go to your room!"
I turned around, facing him. "What if I don't want to? "
"Then," he paused to think carefully, "I don't know if I'll be able to stop myself."