But looking at her, all of that annoyance melts away. I’ve always had a penchant for tidiness. Compulsive, some might say. But nothing ever feels quite right until everything is in its place. I get this annoying, nagging fucking awareness when something is out of sorts. Can’t help it—don’t want to. Because that moment when things slot together, falling into how they ought to be, is better than sex. It slides down my spine like a warm caress, settling into the center of my bones and twining around the marrow. That’s how I feel right now, seeing Story in my bed. This is her place. This is where
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