I looked down at him, with his tourmaline eyes and copper hair and believed him despite my better judgment. Then I forgave him despite my misgivings. I loved him just because I did. My heart wasn’t sensible or guarded enough. Not by a sight.
I was a walking raw nerve ending of emotion, as if the years I’d spent away from men and sex had made me more emotional, more vulnerable, more foolish than before. I ran my fingers through his hair, feeling like the victim of a crime of consent.
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