All Chapters of Kiss me 2.1: Chapter 111 - Chapter 120

LinaI spent the day in a fog… Jade decided to have a small get-together tonight.The music still floats through the house like a slow breath. An old soul track, too deep to be innocent, too slow to be harmless. It clings to the walls, to the glasses, to the skin. The lights are low, golden, indulgent. Here, no one wants to be seen too clearly. Angles are blurred. Intentions, much less.The couples arrived one by one, laughter slung over shoulders, glasses already full. The initial pleasantries lasted twenty minutes, no more. After that, voices drew closer. Bodies too. Whiskey flows. Gin burns. Boundaries shift silently.I'm wearing a dress too short to be accidental. It clings to my hips when I move. I know it. Evan does too. His gaze brushes against me more than it fixes on me. But every time it passes over me, I feel like it leaves a mark. A persistent, almost painful warmth.Théo talks loudly near the bar, perfectly at ease in this role of host who observes as much as he receives.

LinaI walk across the room with a slow step, the bare soles of my feet sinking slightly into the thick carpet. The air is heavy, laden with the smell of spilled whiskey, the sweat of bodies that have been brushing against each other all evening, and that electric tension that persists even after the last guests have slipped away. My thighs stick together with every movement, and I can still feel the weight of him inside me, Evan. His semen trickles down my lips, thick, tepid, a viscous reminder of the way he took me against the library wall, his fingers digging into my hips while I clung to his shoulders, my nails planted in his skin. I can still taste him at the back of my throat, acrid and salty, mixed with the gin I downed in one go afterwards.Théo is leaning against the kitchen counter, his shirtsleeves rolled up to his elbows, his muscular forearms crossed over his chest. He watches me approach, a sideways smile that says I know. Without a word, he pushes a glass towards me—dark

LinaThe air in the bathroom, still saturated with hot steam and the smell of us, cools slowly on my skin. The mirror is fogged where my forehead and hands pressed against it. I trace a furrow in the condensation with my finger, revealing my dark eyes, a face marked by hunger and brutal satiety. My thighs are heavy, trembling slightly. Between them, a persistent warmth, a slow trickle I no longer try to stop.It's like an echo throughout my body. A deep hum, where he possessed me, filled me. And yet, beneath the muscle fatigue, beneath the numbness of repeated pleasure, a nervous vibration resumes. An awakening. The night is young. Evan is somewhere in the apartment, that silent and unpredictable force. His departure is not an end. It's a pause. The promise of a resumption.I move away from the mirror, from the crime scene. My steps are silent on the cold tiles. I pass through the bathroom door, naked, the air of the other rooms drier, sharper, caressing the traces of sweat and water

LinaThe day enters the room like an intruder. It sweeps the corners, dissolves the complicit shadows of the night, catches the dust dancing, heavy and slow. It strikes my closed eyelids first, a coppery, insistent light. I wake by degrees, a consciousness rising reluctantly from the depths of a leaden sleep.My body speaks before my mind. It is a map of dull aches, sore muscles, memories inscribed in the flesh. The coolness of the sheets against my naked skin is a violent contrast. Too clean. Too empty.I turn my head. The other side of the bed is empty.The sheets are rumpled, still imprinted with the shape of his body, his weight. But Evan is no longer there. The space is just an abandoned territory, a crater after the explosion. The silence, now, is different from that of the night. It is no longer charged with desire, threats, or stolen confessions. It is simply… empty. Aired. Dead.I sit up. My head spins for a moment. The room spins with it. The disorder jumps out at me, more v

LinaThe park is a rustle of life this Sunday afternoon. The happy cries of children, the distant whistle of a train, the murmur of the wind in the young leaves of the chestnut trees. I am sitting on a bench, my hands wrapped around a cup of hot tea. I watch the scene before me.Clara is kneeling on the grass, a few metres away. She is helping her son, Léo, adjust the small stabilizer wheels on his first bicycle. Two and a half years old. Blonde curls bouncing under his red cap. He fidgets impatiently.— Almost there, sweetheart, hold the handlebars steady.Her voice is soft, firm. A mother's voice. A serene voice.I observe her, my sister. She is wearing a light dress, her hair cut in a bob that lights up her face. She is smiling, truly. It is no longer the tense smile, waiting for the next disappointment, that I used to see. It is a smile that comes from the belly, a smile that has reconciled with the light.She did not stay with Evan.This truth, she delivered to me a year ago, dur