I have to remind myself not to collapse and sit on top of him, cognizant of his narrower frame and my bulk. If I thought he’d looked depraved before, it’s nothing compared to how he looks now: lips swollen, eyes glassy, and hair damp with sweat. Sitting gingerly back on his thighs, I drop my head into the crook of his neck. I need a second to fucking breathe. He smells like sex and Dove soap, and me. Nico’s hands, tentative and featherlight, coast up my back. The touch is so delicate, compared to what we just did, it feels almost loving. And so begins the wishful thinking portion of tonight’s
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