“I like you,” I murmur against her mouth. She moans into it. My hands roam over the waist of her velvet dress, up her spine, over her shoulders, holding her closer—as close as she can get. I’ve touched Michelle in quiet ways for weeks, little bumps or strokes along her knee and forearm, but the freedom to touch wherever I like is like carrying heaven in my palms. And to be touched by her—to have her slender hands trail up my neck and dip into my hair—is all-consuming. The gentle thumb strokes over my temples, the way her lips open for me to sink my tongue into, the little breathy moans when I
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