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Our sex is fierce. We will both be bruised. “I want it to always be like this,” I tell him. His nostrils flare, obsidian eyes mock. “Try holding on to that thought.” “I do not need to try. I will never feel differently.” “Ah, Mac,” he says, and his laughter is as dark and cold as the place of which I dream, “one day you will wonder if it’s possible to hate me more.”
