Every touch of his tongue stamps his name all over me, and I like it. I like it so much I twist my fingers in the fabric of his shirt, stepping back and pulling him with me—until I’m pressed up against the tree I just climbed, caught between my rock and a hard place. Then we kiss some more. When we slowly, gently, come to a stop, he looks at me with cautious eyes and says, “Is this okay?” “This,” I tell him softly, “is perfect.” Even though a week ago I would have been panicking, even though I should be panicking now. I can’t, not with him, not when he’s made a rose of my heart: it’s still
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