My hand, entirely of its own accord, reaches out so that I can trace the loosened plaits of her braid. Her hair is so soft. It looks like black silk and feels even softer. I wish her hair was completely free and unbound. She is so beautiful when her hair is loose around her shoulders, framing her face.

I wish I had told her that before.

I wish I could tell her that now.

But I can’t. It is just one item on the long list of things I cannot do. Not now. Not ever.

I cannot close the space between us, breathing in that mixture of scents that is both uniquely hers and unique to this moment. The floral perk of the rosewater she dabs behind her ears. The sharp citrus tang of the oranges around us. The warm vanilla of the oil she works into the ends of her hair.

I cannot place my hand on her face. I cannot delight in how perfectly the curve of her cheek fits against my palm. I cannot run my thumb over the sharp jut of her cheekbone. I cannot trace the line of her lips with reverent fingers.

I cannot do the thing I want most.

I cannot kiss her.

But …

I do it anyway.

Our noses collide before our lips do. I almost laugh right into her mouth. Her lips open in a gasp of surprise against mine. I lean in, crowding her against the trunk of the tree.

My hands. I don’t know what to do with my hands. They open and close at my sides, useless. I have imagined this scenario so many times, but now that it’s happening, I scarcely know what to do with myself.

Kiki’s hands come up to cup my face, her palms curving against the line of my jaw like they were made for precisely that purpose.

The feeling of her lips against mine is downright sinful. Now I know why priests don’t want us to do this. If everyone knew how good this was, they would never do anything else.

A soft sigh escapes her, and I think it’s maybe a pleased sound, but then I realize her lips are as still as stone. She isn’t moving.

She isn’t kissing me back.

Kiki presses against my face, pushing me away gently but firmly.

My soul begins to shatter, piece by piece, like a pane of glass fracturing into a thousand tiny shards.

“Ana…”

We stare at each other for a long moment, our chests rising and falling with too rapid breaths, like we’ve just come running from a fight.

Her thumb traces my lower lip, and by God, if that isn’t the most divine sensation I have ever experienced. It feels so good that I know I must be condemned to the fiery pits of eternal damnation because nothing in the world is supposed to feel like that.