Her red hair is piled in a bun, and she’s wearing jeans and a white sweatshirt that slopes off one shoulder, revealing a sliver of pale, kissable, freckled skin, and that silver snowflake necklace that I want to drag between my teeth only so I can lick what’s under it. I stare a little too long at her collarbone, remembering how she tastes. Like strawberries and champagne. Remembering, too, how much she likes kisses on her collarbone, her shoulder, and especially at the hollow of her throat. The way she trembles when I touch her there…
