This time, when he kisses me, there’s no teasing or softness. He doesn’t give me closed-mouthed pecks that make me want to beg for more. This time, he gives me dirty, feverish kisses that are made up of tongue and teeth, his hot breath mingling with my own. He’s kissing me so hard it almost hurts, and when he bites my top lip, I could swear I taste blood. But that doesn’t bother me, not in the slightest. My mind is too consumed by the pleasure of having him devour my mouth like it’s his last meal and the way he growls against my lips and pushes me to him even more, presses into me even harder
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