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You might not, but we’ll always know that it happened.
We’ll always feel what we felt. I’ll always want to feel that
again. I want you, Coralyn Anderson. I want to know you. I
want to take you apart.
That was the truth, even if it was fucked. Coralyn embodied
something that called out to the instinctual part of Giana.
Instead of mulling over her rage, turning it around to use it as
vengeance, she’d been ruminating on a pair of summer blue
eyes, a body made for sin, and a mouth that begged to be
kissed.
I want to break you down and find out what’s at your center.
I want to figure you out. I want to figure out why I can’t stop
thinking about you. Why I dream about you. Why that time
with you was the only time in the past twenty years that I’ve
felt anything worth feeling at all.
She wanted, more than anything, what she’d felt after she’d
brought Coralyn to orgasm. She wanted her to look at her that
way again, where, for just that moment, she’d been given
everything. It had been brought on by the height of passion,
but it was real. Giana had brought lots of women to orgasm
before.
None of them had ever looked at her like that.
You were nice. You were vulnerable. Coralyn had said that.
What she’d really meant was that Giana had been free. And
now she was locked in chains again, and the worst part was
that she was no longer content to be that way. She hadn’t quite
returned to her former state.
She wasn’t done with Coralyn Anderson, and Coralyn had
come because she wasn’t done with her. Things were the most
fractured they’d ever been, but still, Coralyn had come here,
