Kissing Dante had become one of Amara’s favorite things. It wasn’t boring at all like her ten-year-old self had thought. No. Kissing him was heaven. Kissing him was sin. It was everything in between, and she was addicted. Some days, they’d go for a walk in the woods and he’d press her up against a tree, slanting his lips over hers. Some days, he’d pick her up from her appointments and they’d pull into the same dirt road, making out for hours in his car. Some days, she’d sneak over to his house, feeling his mouth dance with hers in perfect rhythm. They kissed a lot, but Dante never, not once
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