AQUAMARINE IS WILD, COMPARED TO YOU

Compared to Eoith, Novelite’s back was soft; all bamboo yarn and rip tide waves beneath his fingertips. He was used to hard, concise edges, the result of burgeoning days of manual labor and general aggression. But Novelite was just skin, so dainty and bijou, like the bones in her limbs dissolved into the milks of her marrow. His name sounded faulty on such quiet lips–much different than the urgency to which he was accustomed. Novelite dragged each syllable by its collar, down and across every inch of her throat. Eoith never bothered to address him by name. This didn’t...

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