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97 pages, Kindle Edition
First published February 8, 2011
I had an American boyfriend once, early on at college, who didn't like tongues at all when he kissed. Just a brush of the lips, a token of affection: California kisses, he called them. Dry and sensitive and all about the romance, really nothing to do with sex. That set my baseline for a scale, from Californian up to English kisses—as far as an uncertain teenager dares to go when he knows that tongues have something to do with the project but he really isn't sure what exactly, and he's just hoping the other guy is more experienced; there are people who spend their whole lives kissing like that, thus far and no further—and then the classic French, the full-on let's-see-if-I-can-reach-your-tonsils-this-time, which is nothing to do with romance or affection and really just all about the sex.
And here we were in France, and here was Benet trying to eat his way inside me, trying to entangle us so deeply he could turn us both inside out just with a tug on our inextricably knotted tongues. It was so far beyond French, it didn't even qualify for a country of its own; this was pan-galactic kissing, alien and soul shaking.