Crossing Lines

Rachael

His chest presses against mine, warm and solid, his hands gripping my waist. When he kisses me, it’s firm, demanding, tasting like beer and heat. I melt into it, drunk and dizzy, until he pulls back, forehead pressed to mine.

“You’re drunk,” he murmurs.

“I’m fine,” I lie, though I feel my p...

Login and Continue Reading