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162 | FRANCESCA P E NN

            My hand digs into her hips, and I nip at her shoulder. Sanya’s core squeezes
        me. She’s getting close. I feel the tremors. A shiver runs through me. I bite my lip,
        willing myself to shut up. I want to tell her I love her, but this is the worst time to
        do it. Sanya will just write it off as an excited utterance. I want her to believe me.
        The water splashing against the floor triggers me. I explode, giving her everything I

        have. Sanya follows, screaming my name in the process. I bite her spot under her
        ear, and she crumbles some more.
            We kiss passionately while our heartrates aim for normalcy. “Please don’t
        stop,” she begs.

            “Never.”










        Henri

            “When?” Sanya asks.
            Her voice is a little tight, but there isn’t any other insight into her mood. She
        scoops some potato salad  onto her plate, the motion causing her firecracker
        earrings to dangle. Sanya never lets  me  down with her themes. The heat and
        humidity urge her to wear less, and I am fine with that. My favorite puff of hair is
        in attendace, and she wears a red, white, and blue bandana as a headband to add a

        little flair to her puff. Her white tank top is adorned with red, blue, and silver jewels
        in the shape of a firecracker that sparkles in the sun. I like what it does to her
        cleavage, but my eyes can’t linger since her dad is always close by. I try not to look
        down to her short denim shorts whenever she walks around the backyard.
            I’d convinced her to hold the fourth of July celebration at the house for both
        families. I want to see how both sides interact and, if I’m lucky, get a glimpse of the
        future. Sanya is still a little weary of my father; I told her he meant well, but she was
        still skeptical. I explained that his confusion came from her name. In his mind, her
        name was Sonya, the same mistake I made when we first met, so he’d expected a
        Hispanic woman to answer the door. Sanya accepted the reasoning but still wasn’t
        sure about his sour disposition. I’d laughed and clarified that it was just his
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