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[ It's better this way, she thinks. If he doesn't kiss me now, maybe he won't. (Maybe she won't want him to.) Yet even her thoughts fall on deaf ears, against the pounding of her heart in them. Her hands clutch the edge of the counter like a lifeline, and her exhale is shaky.
She doesn't remember deciding to reach for him. There's only a burst of realization, and her heart dropping like lead. (Dread and exhilaration and yes and no and finally all over again.) Her head tilts up to his, and her hands slide over his arms, up to his shoulders, waiting for the will to push him away. Counting on it.
It's different, this time. Different and exactly the same. There is no shouldn't because there's too much desire to drown it; she feels her lips part against his coaxing, and her pulse is suddenly back and racing when she tastes the warm breath between them. She damns herself because it weakens whatever held her still. Instead she fits her lips over his with a crane of her neck and hates and needs how good it feels, reaches to fold a hand over his, leans away from the counter and into him.
It's clumsy at worst, unsure at best. Full of wanting and longing at its most terrifying. She can't care. ]