I thought I was going to sweat five years before I'd feel like this.""I wanted it as much as you did. I've just got a hell of a poker face" I smiled, pressing my lips against his.

I shifted in my seat, curious about the tension that idea caused in my body. Every time I thought of a blindfolded restrained man exploring my body I pressed my thighs together seeking relief. I felt I should have been more concerned about losing my ability to speak from the ball gag, but instead it was a relief. I was terrible at talking to people, this eliminated awkward small talk, and shifted the dynamic of the meeting in a way I didn’t quite understand.

Be my shield, baby. Be my world

The barber's assistant asks if I am a Swede. An American? Not that either. A Russian? Well, then, what are you? I love to answer such nationalistically tinted questions with a steely silence, and to leave people who ask me about my patriotic feelings in the dark. Or I tell lies and say that I'm Danish. Some kinds of frankness are only hurtful and boring.

Just focus on me,” I whispered to her, nipping her earlobe. “Nothing matters here but us. The way you feel. The way I feel. The way we feel together.

See not the face..but only the eyes, of the poker face.

Not much more than a broke disgrace who's hooked on tonics, so excuse him if his poker face has puke on it.

She had the world’s worst poker face: her feelings floated across them like reflections on a still pond.