She sips.
And she chokes. “Oh my god, you weren’t kidding about the socks. Are you sure there’s nothing poisonous in here?”
“I’m a scientist at heart. You can trust me.”
“Whatisthat?”
“Warm cinnamon kombucha, actually.”
“No.”
“Yep.”
“Iknewit wasn’t coffee.”
“Gold star again.”
“I can’t believe you like this stuff but you don’t like coffee.”
“People are weird. Here. Last one.”
She eyes the final mug, this one blue with foam that’s probably too high.
“It’s actually coffee. With milk.” I push it closer to her.
She picks it up and sniffs.
Then sniffs deeper.
I lean closer. The snow has melted out of her curls and her cheeks are still pink, likely from the cold. Whatever shampoo she used is mingling with the scents of coffee and chai, and I want to kiss her.
Again.
That’s all I want to do. Kiss her. Touch her. Strip her. Bury my hands in her curls and inhale the scent of her. Lick her. Eat her. Take her.
Her eyes drift closed while she sniffs the coffee once more, and I want to be the mug when she puts it to her lips.
She sips, and then a softmmmfloats through the air.
If I wasn’t already hard, thatmmmwould’ve done me in.
Check that.
I’m now over-hard and it hurts.
Still wouldn’t trade this pain.
“Wow.” She licks the foam off her upper lip. “That’s actually good.”
“Thank you.”
Her gaze snaps to mine.
Don’t think it’s the ego in thethank youeither.
I think it was the huskiness in my voice.
I’m leaning so far over the counter that it wouldn’t be a stretch to kiss her lips.
