Allie has mastered the art of leaving. The art of untangling herself from limbs and bedsheets and the promises she made to stay till morning. She's the modern-day equivalent of Cinderella, except she's always smart enough to remember both her shoes.
So, it's not hard to remove Harrison's arm from her waist, and it's even easier to get up without rustling the blankets.
But Harrison makes saying goodbye hard, even with the dribble of drool cemented to his chin. Everything he does is gentle and careful and kind, and his skin is so pale he almost blends in with the moonlight. Even though her physical entanglements are gone, and she's already shoved her feet back into her boots, she lingers a little too long watching his throat bob.
Maybe Allie is lulled by his sense of serenity, or she forgets for a second why she needs to go, because without even thinking, she's pressing her lips to his forehead and closing her eyes.
Harrison lets out a semi-soft snore, and Allie hopes it's his way of saying "stay."
But really, all it could mean is "go."
YOU ARE READING
Osculation
Roman d'amour"As far as I can tell, there are two basic (kissing) rules: 1. Don't bite anything without permission. 2. The human tongue is like wasabi: it's very powerful, and should be used sparingly." In which Anna writes about a lot of people kissing.
