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CHAPTER 43

People say a little of something is better than a lot of nothing.

They’re wrong. They’re so fucking wrong it’s unbelievable.

A little of Chloe wasn’t better than none of her. It was the worst kind of torture, because a little always leaves you wanting more.

A little of her, her lips across mine, her fingers digging into my skin, her legs around my waist, was worse than if she’d shoved me off her and told me she didn’t want me.

If I hadn’t had her beneath me earlier, curled around me, making those tiny, happy noises into my mouth, I wouldn’t be burning with the urge to touch her and finish what we started.

My fingers wouldn’t be twitching with the intense urge to rip her shirt over her head and see that so-called imperfect stomach. I wouldn’t be dying to run my lips over her breasts and down her body to her hips. I wouldn’t be so fucking desperate to pull those shorts down her legs along with her underwear and tease her until she’s wet and ready for me.

I wouldn’t be so fucking turned
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