Charlie's lips are soft like meringue. His kisses feel pillowy and smooth in their trail across my cheek, down my neck and chest, against my inner thigh, and wow, there too. He's practiced. Every motion is intentional, and I could feel the ephemeral rush of intense pleasure knotting in my stomach. So I try to focus on anything but Charlie's soft lips. The ceiling, the string lights, the plants, anything!

"You like that Desmond?" As he talks, I feel his breath against me, adding to the haze.

Of course I like it, but I'm too focused on lasting to speak.