Nothing has ever tasted as sweet as the silent promise on his lips. You are my inevitable. The kiss deepens, and with it, a plea with each press of my mouth. I love you. I tell him in the sigh he draws from my lips. In every slow caress across his skin. In every pounding beat of the heart that belongs to him. I love you. He smells of pine and spice and long nights under the willow. I love you. He tastes like a secret I wish to scream, a word on the tip of my tongue that will never be mine to utter. So I say his name instead, as if I could claim him so easily. As if I’m not thinking of three
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