[ An encouraging push with the tips of his fingers on her wrist, suggestion more than a nudge, Zephir comes down to brush her lips with his. The ghost of a kiss for her to chase with the high, one hand slipping under her shirt to cup a breast. A soft squeeze, thumb rubbing along the curve, Zephir offers his name and asks for hers, an exchange made through whispers. He dots her cheek and neck with kisses, bringing his next words to her ear. ]
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Faith is a gift, Ash. Will you give me yours?