“Now, you’re fucked, baby.” His scans my face. He looks like he’s memorizing it. He’s committing me to memory. “Why?” His eyes, black and threatening and so beautiful, come up to mine. “Do you have any idea how long, how fucking long I’ve wanted to kiss that mouth?” I shake my head. “A thousand years.” He studies my parted, blue-painted lips. “Or at least, it feels like it. I’ve wanted to kiss it ever since you first put on your lipstick in eighth grade.” Oh, I remember that.
