I couldn't think, couldn't think about anything but the velvet feel of his mouth on mine. My voice was suddenly mine again, not breathy, not sexy, just mine. He looked at me and laughed. I got that tiny pulse in my head that I sometimes got when I prayed.
Something about not trusting that I couldn't control the zombie enough to get the answers that certain people wanted. They were to battle what Belle Morte is to sex. He looked strangely suspicious, and I realized that it was my expression in his eyes, more than his, as if I'd taught him that look, and this caution. I think that was why the church always looked unfinished to me, naked like the walls needed clothes.
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