“I’m afraid I’ll die before you kiss me.” “That should be the opening of your new novel,” Sam says to me. “Antonio, six-foot-six and every inch a man, peered down at her four-foot-two frame, and said, ‘From up here I can barely see you.’” “You’re cruel!” I say, slumping lower in my chair. “‘Antonio, you brute,’ she said. ‘I love you madly.’ Standing on her tippy-toes, stretching up her arms, straining through her fingertips, she reached for his nipples. They seemed as big as frying pans.” “Frying pans?” Sam looks at me askance. “Okay, pancakes.” I giggle. “With butter and maple syrup,” Sam says, and I nod. He continues, “Slowly, one millimeter at a time, she dragged herself along the ripples of his stomach, pulling herself ...
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