Whenever I kiss someone new, I find myself comparing. Them to me, them to others, me to others. Where had these lips been? What do these lips like? It's a strange ritual, I know. I should be focused on the way Charles' soft hands slide against my chest. I should be focused on the gentle moan he releases against my lips. I should be focused on the timid way his tongue dances with mine. But I can't. I pull away, and stare into his hooded eyes. "Sorry, but can we stop for a second? Is this something you do often?"