But it was what happened after sex with her that confounded me the most. It was I who took her to my bed every night. She loved—needed—to be held. And I liked holding her—far more than I should. The feel of her molded to my chest, her hair spilling down her back over my hands was becoming addictive. I found the tighter I held her, the more she melted into me. It was hard to figure out where I stopped and she started at times.
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