“I could serenade you with words,” he supplied, taking my hand and kissing the palm of it, never letting his gaze leave mine. “If I was a poet, I could liken love to your eyes. If I was a gardener, I could plant a kiss on all the places you despise on yourself.” Slowly, he pulled me down on top of him, pressed against him. “If I was a writer, I could write epics to your lovely lips.” He kissed me again, and his words were hot against my mouth. “If I was a painter, I could explore every bend and curve so when my eyes failed me, I would paint you by memory.” His hands slid along the length of my
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