The running count of men in the house whose tongues I'd tasted currently stood at three. The differences between them were subtle but unmistakable. Angelo kissed like he lived…with arrogant confidence, essentially taking over and dominating. Jamal kissed with urgency like he wanted to rip my clothes off. And G? Slow and deep like he was making love to my mouth. Which I wouldn’t have minded, to be quite honest.
