“Meredith,” Matt says, and turns my face
to his.
It’s about the least romantic thing you
can imagine. His fingers on my skin feel like the fire has shifted, been blown
upward, embers dancing across every bit of territory they can find. At home,
fires like to jump the freeway, blown by winds whose only job is to hurt.
His lips on mine: an invasion.
His tongue in my mouth: terrifying.
And yet I respond. Why?
No comments:
Post a Comment