“Poppy,” he repeated, his breath against my lips. And then his mouth was on mine.
His lips—oh, gods, I drowned at the feel of them. I didn’t think any memory could capture the unyielding hardness or the lush softness. I didn’t think any memory could recreate the way he kissed.
Because Casteel kissed as if he were starving, and I was the only sustenance he’d ever desired. Ever needed. He kissed as if it were the first thing he ever truly wanted and the last thing he needed.
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