“Well, I mean . . .” I take on an instructional tone. “Where were your hands? I’m pretty sure they just stayed there, clipped to your sides”—my eyes twinkle—“like you were made of cardboard.” “They were holding you!” he retorts. “What do you mean, where were my hands? They were holding you!” “Were they?” I say innocently, as though I can’t remember—quite clearly, in fact—exactly where his hands skimmed the back of my arms, tugged me close, cupped my cheeks and then my neck the past three minutes. I shrug. “You know, the important thing here, I think, is practice. I can tell we’re going to have
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