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“Her pouting lips pressed into mine—the sour of beer on them, her still wet hands knit into my hair—gave me no option. I did not want one. I had offered others my submission—or the pretense of it—but she demanded my surrender.” — Valentine Glass
Her pouting lips pressed into mine—the sour of beer on them, her still wet hands knit into my hair—gave me no option. I did not want one. I had offered others my submission—or the pretense of it—but she demanded my surrender.