My lips smash against his as I grip hold of the lapels of his jacket and yank him close. I kiss him in anger and with love. I kiss him with fierceness and hurt. I kiss him with longing and loathing. This kiss isn’t a white flag of truce. This kiss is meant to distract, to disarm. I can’t give him the answers he seeks, but I can give him something to think about. After a beat, he kisses me back. He presses his body against mine, lifts me up beneath my thighs and traps me against the wall. His stubble scratches against my skin, but I don’t care. We kiss in a way that opens old wounds.
