Then her touch on my hand was no longer curative, but a disease. A wanted one. The kind that makes you burn inside and flush externally. Her tongue was hot and eager and indecisive. I had to wonder how many times she’d done this before. It didn’t seem like a whole hell of a lot.
It was that kiss that’s a first-time kind of kiss: both mouths open wide, lip tightly to lip. The kind of kiss where the tongues can’t seem to find enough space. The kind that makes you dizzy either because it’s romantic or wretched or somewhere in that awkward middle, leaving you hanging on an unsteady platform.
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