Aftertaste.

You know how I can tell she’s in love? Because she’s licking her lips again as she writes, after a decade of denying the chemistry pulsing beneath her skin. Watching her is like watching that piece of raspberry chocolate cake go round and round the turn table in the diner…knowing fully well it would be the perfect end to a slow, steady and satisfying meal.

But you’re on a diet.

Watching. Lusting. Salivating. Devouring.

Fantasy is bliss injected with a syringe of bitter sweet agony.

Wait for the aftertaste.

Self-restraint can be as bitter as indulgence is sweet.

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