Kissing Milo is torture.
Every kiss burns my lips, my tongue, my mouth. Pain surges through my body with each slip of his tongue into my mouth. My heart slowly stops, trying to shut him out. My breathing is weak, and my body so cold.
“Are you cold, baby?” Milo asks.
Baby. Milo isn’t allowed to call me baby, only Enzo is.
“A little,” I say, shivering again.
He grins, his dimples deepening. “Don’t worry; I’m about to warm you up.”
His lips crash down on me again in a messy, sloppy kiss. He’s been drinking, but I don’t think he’s drunk, just sloppy in comparison to Enzo.
It shouldn’t make me feel guilty kissing Milo, not when Enzo kissed Liesel, but I do. I don’t want to kiss Milo. I don’t care about winning anymore, only surviving. I need to get off this yacht in one piece.
B
