How many late nights, how many early mornings had it been now, sprawled out alone in her bed, his name on her lips, imagining it was him?

A year of this now. A year of aching for him, of heat pooling in May's stomach every time he caught her gaze. The nineteen year old had never wanted anyone the way she had wanted him. And yet, he seemed to overwhelm her senses, filling her with desire until all she could do was vehemently wish he would push her against the nearest surface, tug her panties down her thighs and make her his...