Marco’s hand slipped underneath the jacket, rain-wet lips met Jean’s in a
rush, and it took Jean’s breath away. The kiss was warm, hot even,
horribly wet with burning tears from both their eyes that ran down their
cheeks and collected on their nosetips. As though on auto-pilot, Jean’s
own hands slipped into Marco’s neck, into his curls to press him
closer, every piece of air between them a waste, and Jesus, Marco was a good kisser.