Before I have a chance to reply, he’s on me, pawing me as he kisses me with far too much tongue. His heavy-handed cologne makes me want to puke. He grips my breasts, squeezing hard, while I resist the urge to knee him in the balls. I may as well be kissing a dead fish because I feel absolutely nothing.
He doesn’t set me on fire by merely being in his presence. Nor does he have me wanting him with every fiber of my being. I think of Alek, and how his kisses make me forget everything but him. How his kisses make me feel loved, wanted, and not owned like a piece of property as I do with Frank.
Frank mistakes my gusto for him, not Alek, whose mouthwatering taste still lingers on my tongue.
“Oh, you bad girl,” he whispers against my lips, drawing up the hem of my dress.
I panic, not wanting
