the ripeness of his fingers; barely enough to call it a kiss, but it wasn't his skin I tasted, or not the skin I was touching. If Jean-Claude had not offered me a home when our old master got himself executed, Belle Morte would have had me. He pulled away again. The rage I'd carried inside me since my mother's death.
Micah got us both moving down the little steps and into the crowd, a hand on either of our arms. Wicked gave me another cynical look. I smiled at him, but not like I was happy. Richard looked down at the floor as if looking for inspiration, or counting to ten.
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