Throws

"He keeps calling me," she reveals over breakfast - our second spent together this week. 
     "Have you been picking up?"
     "No, but he keeps sending me texts which of course I read, and I can't face Twitter - the last time I checked my account, he'd mentioned me in several posts..." her voice trails off as she bites into her toast; the corners of her mouth are glazed with strawberry jam.
I wipe them with the tips of my fingers and as the warmth of her breath escapes her mouth, imagine how the rest of her warm skin would feel beneath my milky fingertips.
She's still talking about him but I'm not even attempting to concentrate. I've heard his name a few times followed by the odd swear word. The thought of her body throws my mind back to that day at his. My heart beat quickens as images of him flash through my mind - his sculpted arms as they held his upper body over mine; the feel of his stomach hair as it brushed against my sticky skin; his closed eyes and warped facial expression in the final throws of our teenage lust. 
Her dainty fingers, with their gnawed nails where she'd bitten unthinkingly, hold a large mug of green tea. The steam rises from the depths of the cup, to her shiny skin. She's still speaking; I catch the last few words - "If I ever find out who she is, I'll kill her. And, as my friend, you will help."