Until I’m drunk on his taste, his smell, and his warmth. On his breath and the feel of his flexing muscles beneath mine. But most importantly, on the pulse that beats in his throat. He’s alive. He’s here. His hands land on my hips, tugging me against him as he kisses me with the same ferocity, digging himself into that nook in my chest even I have no access to. But I don’t care. As long as I can feel his heartbeat thundering against my chest, as long as I can hear his growls of pleasure, as long as I can smell his intoxicating scent, I can flounder in self-hatred afterward. I can take on those
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