“My tattoo isn’t for my mom. It’s for you. I have peonies around my house because they remind me of you. I send flowers before every performance. The day you got stung by a bee when you were sixteen and went into anaphylaxis was the scariest fucking day of my life. I listen to all of the music playlists you make, and all of my videos use the classical works I know you listen to a lot. I—fuck,” I groan, feeling my balls tighten as the base of my spine begins to tingle. “I’m really fucking close.” “Tell me more,” Layla says, words muffled. “Fuck, I—” She bites—gently. I hiss and fist her hair
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