Luka clenched his fingers into the fabric of my coat, and I brushed my lips over his. He tasted like sugar and falling leaves, like the month of October. He tasted familiar, like how all kisses should have tasted. There was nothing sloppy about Luka’s tongue or the way his teeth sank into my bottom lip. It was slow, the way he melted into me, the way he let me in. Every touch was infinite. It wasn’t rushing blood and fire. It was finding myself and coming home. It was years of waiting and confusion and forgiveness. I wanted this building pressure, this urge to expose every nerve as his hand
...more
