The cigarette smoke always smells like you. Smells like when I come back to the car after a long detail and find you asleep in the passenger seat, your head against the window. The scent gets in my clothes, my hair. Reminds me of last week in the rain, when you were shivering and I gave you my jacket. You had no idea I was hard the whole time, imagining how your nipples would feel pressed against my chest, how your little pussy would taste if I pushed you against that wet brick wall and got on my knees. This fucking addiction isn't to nicotine. It's to the way you make my cock throb with just your existence.