Zane
I was flying.
Every time she gave herself to me - which by the time five a.m. rolled around, had already been twice more, I was flying.
Each experience was different.
Each kiss evolved.
Each touch transformed into something more meaningful. Something that meant a hell of a lot more than a twenty-four-hour booty call.
She was breathing deep, her wild hair falling across her face, kissing her barely parted lips.
I leaned down and kissed her forehead then walked over to my guitar and picked it up.
I processed things differently than most people. Therapy had never worked for me because talking about the anxiety had always made it worse, almost like this weird paranoia that if I talked about it, it made it more real, so I kept it to myself.
But talking to Fallon felt freeing.
Lik
