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She comes fast and hard, bucking against my lips, clawing at my skin, groaning my name again and again.

I plant a soft kiss on her thigh. Her stomach. Her chest.

Her lips.

She looks up at me with heavy lids. "That… You…"

I wrap my arms around her.

"Fuck." She melts into my touch. "You're…" Her voice gets soft. Sincere. "Fuck."

I pull her closer.

Slowly, she falls asleep in my arms.

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chloe

Morning light falls over the blue sheets and the navy comforter. I roll away from the window, press my eyelids together, soak in the feeling of the sun on my back.

Slowly, I stretch my arms over my head. Shake my legs. Wiggle my toes. There's this bliss in my bones, this satisfaction I haven't felt in a long, long time.

Last night…

God.

Memories threaten to derail the day's plans. They promise to keep me in a happy world filled with pleasure and connection and love. They promise to lock out ugly realities.

I want to stay there.

I want to buy a fucking house there.

But I only have…

Shit, how much time do I have?

I throw the comforter off. Slip out of bed. There. My backpack is sitting on top of my jeans. Phone in the front pocket.

The screen displays a sassy text from Dad (I swear, he's more older sister than Gia sometimes).

Dad: Staying with a friend, huh? Wonder if his name rhymes with bean.

He could at least pretend he's bothered by the thought of me hooking up with an inked sex god.

I find my spare pair of panties (I keep it around for period mishaps, but this is a much more fun use) and slide them on. Then my jeans. Bra. Tank top. Socks. Boots.

My clothes are scattered around the room. Collecting them is like living last night in reverse.

It's a head trip.

It's too much for nine o'clock. I have two hours until that test. I have two hours to feel like a normal person. To be a girl gushing over great sex. Over the thrill of falling in… well, I think a part of me has loved Dean since high school. But now… I don’t know.

There are too many feelings whirling around my brain.

I move into the bathroom. Brush my teeth, wash my face, run a comb through my hair. This is where short hair excels. No fuss.

My reflection stares back at me with messy raccoon eyes and dark circles, but there's no denying the satisfaction in her expression.

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