Roisin
No matter how hard I tried, the memory refused to come into focus.
The face—the identity—of the person I had kissed was like smoke in my hands, slipping away every time I tried to grasp it. But the sensation of the kiss lingered. I could still feel the press of their lips on mine, the hunger behind it, the way they had kissed me like I was the only thing in the world that mattered. That memory—the feeling of it—was burned into my skin. It sent a shiver racing down my spine, curling through me like a slow ember I couldn’t extinguish.
I shook my head sharply, trying to banish the thought. It was too much. Too dangerous. Too confusing.
By the time I finished getting dressed, the pounding in my skull had dulled to something manageable, and I felt almost human again. I ran a brush
