I needed more than this chaste existence I had boxed myself into. I ached for touch, for hands on my skin that were rougher than my own, and a mouth against mine. I wanted to experience more than I even knew how to dream about.
Dreams. They had gotten more explicit lately, even painfully so. Sometimes, like tonight, I knew they were coming, and avoided sleep altogether. How could my subconscious pull me into such crazed images of flesh and skin and thirst? These pathetic lips had never even been kissed; how could I want what I'd never had so badly?
I wanted to be someone else, someone bold: someone who didn't reek of inexperience and need,