"Politician's daughters are very good. At flipping the script. I should know." She was one. The girls raised to be presentable, to seem more innocent than you ever were—the pretty little flower that grew teeth and started biting the hands that tried to pick its petals.

Her teeth graze Erin's throat and her claws trail along the shape of the breast beneath her hand. Slowly, one circles the nipple.

"You should've seen her with her hand inside me," she murmurs against Erin's neck, tasting her pulse with her lips. Double meanings are handy things, when you've got a secret to keep but a story to tell.