His expression flickers with a little surprise, then something else I can't tell.“You’re always horny, Meeka,” he says with a half-sigh, half-laugh, the kind that lands like a slap instead of a joke.Ouch.My chest hurts, but I force a smirk anyway, hiding the sting under practiced nonchalance. “And you’re not always in the mood,” I whisper, leaning in, brushing my lips against his jaw. “So what now? Should I start scheduling it?”He exhales, tense. “That’s not what I meant.”“Then what did you mean?” I murmur, kissing him again, firmer this time, like I’m trying to prove something neither of us understands.He hesitates. I can feel it in the way his lips barely move, the way his hands rest limply on my waist instead of pulling me closer.And still, I keep kissing him, harder, my hands lock on his damp hair. I'm not ready to give up this time. I need him to fuck me. To fuck every thoughts of Slade out of my head. He's my fiance, and the only one who's thoughts should occupy my head
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