He came back into the kitchen, wrapping his fingers around my upper arms, pressing his forehead against mine, walking backwards until we were up against the wall. He smiled at me, painfully almost.
Don't write about it, Bridgie. Don't write about it when I touch you. Don't write about us making love. Don't put it there so he can see it. It's not for him. It's for us.
Weird. I thought Lochlan would be boastful, thrilled to have it right out there for everyone (the Devil) to read. But he isn't.
