Quiet, she tells me, the word a gentle hum. Her gaze keeps drifting to the side, as though she's waiting for the bedroom door to swing open. As though her friends aren't blissfully unaware, lost in the sound of a raging bass and strong liqueur.

My only answer is to laugh. The sound is muffled against her skin and when she gives a laugh of her own, I can smell the vodka on her breath. When we kiss, I can taste it, too. It's a sharp contrast to the sweet balm that she placed on her lips earlier in the night and I can only faintly taste the strawberries...



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