“You’re succeeding,” he says, and then his lips are on mine again, soft this time. But soft or hard, sweet or angry, that same feeling clicks into place. It’s just easier to place when it’s sweet and soft and full of . . . more. Comfort. Sweet comfort in a way I’ve never felt. Comfort and security, like being rolled in cotton and silk and protected from the world. His lips glide along mine, unhurried, kissing and moving, tasting and learning. Like we’re discovering what this is, what this could be. Who we are when we aren’t at each other's throats. And I am terrified because I really, really
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