The first few moments of the rush was always the most potent; they made Emilie feel as though she were caught in a wave, lifted off her feet and pulled in every direction in such a way that made her never want to surface. Her moan matched Clover's. It was soft and deep, shuddering, and she fell back onto the mattress with a body-wide tremble and an arch of her back.
All at once, her blue eyes were blown wide and dark with pupils so big they could've been pits of tar. Emilie wanted to speak, maybe to say Clover's name, but the only thing that came out was a soft, whispery sound of ecstasy so palpable it rolled off of Emilie in thick waves. She reached out, desperate to touch someone (Ezra, always Ezra, but he wasn't there), and she fisted her fingers into the material of Clover's shirt just to keep her close.
Right then, she wasn't thinking of how terribly lonely she was or how frightening it was to suddenly be without the only anchor she ever had. No, right then, she could think of nothing but the rise and fall of her breath, the tingling sensation that shot down her limbs. Was it any wonder people got so addicted to this drug?