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            Imogen, feeling invincible, ran full-tilt through the forest.

            The sensation of Constance still hung heavy on her lips, stirring her to endless animation. The cold could not touch her: she now knew the dip of the woman’s waist, had discovered it with tentative fingers and explored it with an eager hand as heat engulfed her body. Her legs could never give way now that they had survived the grip of her inamorata’s thighs—they had kept her aloft through the impossibly thrilling arousal of it. Her heart could surely beat no faster than it had then.

            Constance had uttered only two words after the kiss—which was long, hurried and interminable at once—and by the colour of her lips and cheeks, Imogen wasn’t sure the woman was aware of them. It was one breath, the barest movement of lips, but Imogen had caught them with her own: ‘not one’.

            Not one?

            How many, then, Imogen wondered: Two? Four? Multiples upon multiples of those burgundy lips pressed to her own, moving as they did with alternate ferocity and tenderness? And more besides, eventually?

            (They had parted amicably, Imogen beginning her long wait with a run. She would win the prize.)