His jokes were the best.
Perhaps it was their strangeness—the out of the ordinary way in which he told them, making her wait and wait and wait for the punchline until she was begging him; "please please Mistah J! Tell me tell me tell me!" He would smirk at her, ruby red lips shining as his tongue swiped across them. His hands gripped her shoulders, and she shuddered at his touch. Her Puddin's touch was just magical. It was a drug, really, and she was hopelessly stoned.
"My silly little girl." he smiled, and she braced herself for the brilliant end to the cryptic words that left his mouth earlier that morning; "what's red and chained to my wall?"
"Tell me Mistah J! I've been waitin' all day..."
He leaned in close to her, hands sliding down her sides and settling possessively at her hips. Oh, she was his. To her very core, he owned her. And it was beautiful.
"What's red and chained to my wall?" he repeated, backing her up against the bedroom wall, and with a gasp, Harley had a feeling she knew how the joke would end.