my hands were on either side of her face and my lips were on hers in the most impromptu first kiss. It wasn't magical and it certainly wasn't sweet. It was an urgent display of my desire in the middle of my kitchen, in a house she thought was cute. I walked her backward until she hit the wall, never breaking the lock my mouth had on hers. To feel her hands in my hair was deliciously deviant. Her fingers wrapped within the strands in coordination with her lips, opening to accept my tongue, and I obliged with a needy and guttural groan. Every bit of warning was silenced by the sounds of our
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