“Have you been kissed even once?” he smirks, warping his lips. “Or do you just write stupid fairy tales in your stories?”
“It’s none of your business,” I snap back out of habit.
And he, likely out of the same old habit, doesn’t leave me alone and keeps cruelly stabbing me with tenderness.
“Who will read your romantic stories if you don’t even know what desire is. And passion for you is just a word.”
I stay silent.
I close my ears so I won’t hear.
But he takes a step, catches my hands with his, spreads them apart, presses me against the wall, wedges his knee between my legs—and, looking at my lips, in a sly voice asks:
“Maybe you should try? And I’ll help you.”