In the sweets category.
Don’t ask me to compare it to fast-food fried fish.
“You’re out of practice,” she says in a wispy breath against my lips.
“Clearly need so much help.”
“For the future.”
“Yes.”
This isn’t practice for some future concept of a woman.
I don’t needpractice, though I’m happy to play the part if it gets me what I want.
And what I want is to kiss Daphne because I’m drunk on pecan pie and grits and anxiety born of tasting freedom andpeace this afternoon before realizing that I’m doing my escape wrong, and kissing Daphne is settling everything that’s wrong.
Even though kissing Daphne is inherently wrong.
Stop. Kissing. Her.
I hear the order again, and once again, I ignore it.
Because she’s threading her fingers deeper into my hair, adding her other hand to hold me in place while she sucks at my lower lip and scrapes her teeth over it, and the only thing to do when a willing woman is kissing you is to kiss her back.
It’s a rule.
Or something.
And when you’re kissing a woman back, you’re morally obligated to run your fingers through her hair too.
Scoot closer.
Lose yourself.
And that’s what I’m doing.
I’m losing myself. Letting myself go.
The way I’ve wanted to for years.
But I never knew I’d want to lose myself with her.
That she could be the answer to all of my worries and inadequacies and questions about if I belong.
“This isn’t personal,” she murmurs through the kiss.
“Practice,” I agree.
She tugs, and I follow her down onto the bed, deepening the kiss until our tongues are teasing each other.
I’m hard as steel, my cock pressing against her thigh while she holds me closer and slants her mouth to kiss me more thoroughly.
This is wrong.
But also right.
Forbidden.
