He draws his thumb from my mouth, and before the desperate begging can spill out of me, he kisses me. My lips are his again, as they have been ever since we stood in that hallway at the prom and I opened a doorway to the inevitable. A prelude to meant to be. Fate disguised in sinful wrapping paper. But it doesn’t feel wrong anymore. His hands on my body don’t feel criminal, and his lips on mine don’t feel like a fluke. Brant seems to melt, deflate, as he presses a soft kiss to my bottom lip, just lingering for a pause as if he’s accepting the moment—this inevitable, meant to be, fateful
...more
