It would be easy to stop and wait for him, to allow this sinner to reach me, to let him hoist me onto the well, so that my legs spread around his waist and my skirt rucked to my hips. The prospect was so tempting, that it physically hurt. Poet must have seen something cleave through my face, because he paused. From across the rim, he raised his brows in nefarious inquiry. It felt wrong to shake my head, but I did. All the while, I gripped the ledge, to prevent myself from grabbing him. And all the while, his own fingers curled, nails digging into the stones until his veins rose. “No kisses, no
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