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“I stir under Zavier's arm, which shifts to my hip. Heavy and intimate and possessive. The subtle scent of him, cologne, sweat, male, reaches my nose. His body is imprinted all over mine--and what does this mean? I'd never been the focus of such ravenous want. Never imagined how irresistible its pull. Sex isn't the barely tolerable duty of procreation like Mom always insinuated. It's two human beings fitting seamlessly together. Maybe it was the dancer in me, but I'd known instinctively how to move--” — Abigail Hing Wen
I stir under Zavier's arm, which shifts to my hip. Heavy and intimate and possessive. The subtle scent of him, cologne, sweat, male, reaches my nose. His body is imprinted all over mine--and what does this mean? I'd never been the focus of such ravenous want. Never imagined how irresistible its pull. Sex isn't the barely tolerable duty of procreation like Mom always insinuated. It's two human beings fitting seamlessly together. Maybe it was the dancer in me, but I'd known instinctively how to move--