The friend of the enemy isn't your friend, Carl! “Maria Taylor,” I repeated, not because it was the first time I was saying it - I'd said it a million times, cursed it even. But there was something about the way she said her name that called out to me. Like she wanted me to see her. “Why do you have that look in your eyes?” she quizzed in a whisper but loud enough for me to hear. “What look?” I asked, through a hazy gaze, as I tried to avert her eyes, conscious of the storm in them. “Do you want to kiss me?” she asked out of the blue, startling me. “What? No.” I protested, but not even my will could withstand what accompanied my response. Age long feud and anger dissolved the moment she touched me. Maria sidled closer, her eyes focused on mine and fingers kneading mine: it took a second but tasted like eternity. Without warning, she planted a deep kiss on my lips. I froze, eyes wide as I opened up my lips to accept her. I've kissed a thousand girls, but I've never felt this way: ensnared, intoxicated, or even imprisoned by a woman's lips. She tasted raw, sad and in need. In need. I tore my hands off the steering wheel and pulled her into my laps with a single flex of my muscles while never missing her lips.