“Junebug.” She freezes, the word echoing all around us. Junebug. I haven’t called her that in weeks. How could I? That nickname was born from innocence and purity. Unsullied love. But now I know the sound of her desire. I’ve memorized the way her curves melt into me when I tug at her hair and make love to her mouth. I’ve witnessed the blue flames in her eyes when she looks at me in a way she should never look at me. God, why did she kiss me? Why did she have to go and do that? And why was I not strong enough to resist her?
