There's something beautiful about a taste of such debauchery. The disheveled nightstand. Slick skin gripping leather. A rose with a few too many thorns. Disappearing into the shadows of deep and bittersweet musk, illicit and dark yet welcoming and warm despite its jagged edges. Waking up to a familiar scent, yet unfamiliar face. A romance only recognized by a sinner. Hard to dismiss, long after the taste.