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Or Maybe Not

Paige

I pressed my lips to Tom’s with all the fire of the dream I’d just left. Want ached between my legs. After a moment, he began kissing me back, moving in time with my mouth, but his hands sat dead at his sides, where they’d been since I’d woken up. The part of me that had burned into desire wanted to lean back and scream at him. Why wouldn’t he touch me? Didn’t he want me? In the dream—dreams, if I was being honest—Tom wasn’t afraid as soon as I made it clear I wanted him. And I very, very much did.

Against my hip, through the blankets, I felt him start to harden. He wanted me. I knew he wanted me.

“You can touch me,” I whispered.

I expected him to move like I’d flipped a switch, but slowly, gently, he ran one hand up my side. Over my sweatshirt. I closed my eyes and dropped my mouth back to his to try to kiss him into action.

In the dark, his hand belonged to someone else. The room transformed. I was somewhere small, and dark, and strange, and my body ached.

I blinked and pulled
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