Dorian would kiss me in the manor's library, long, slow kisses where he whispered to me in French, soft questions of romantic encouragement. The cross haunted my nights, but Dorian haunted everything else. He was the ghost in the walls. He was the madman who only toyed playfully with insanity, flirting with it like he flirted with me. One night I remember him seeing something in my eyes that made him concerned again and he ended up turning me in his arms, stroking his palm between my legs so that I rode back on him and whatever mental place I was in, it was one where I was on the...