I can’t stop thinking about pinning Margot Robbie down, feeling her squirm under me while I force my weight against her so she can’t get away. I want to run my hands over every single inch of her—slow at first, then rougher, gripping her waist, sliding up her ribs, squeezing her breasts hard enough to make her gasp. I’d kiss her violently, biting her lower lip until I taste copper, then move to her throat, sinking my teeth into the soft skin there while she tries to twist. My palm would clamp tight over her mouth, muffling whatever sounds she makes—screams, whimpers, pleas—while I drag my lips and tongue down the side of her neck, biting again and again until the marks bloom red and purple. I want to do every bad, filthy thing to her body until she’s shaking and helpless underneath me, until there’s no part of her I haven’t claimed or bruised or ruined.