“I was expecting whiskey.”
She laughs as she rounds the bar and sits on the stool beside me. The stools squeal as they spin together.
Our knees knock.
Our legs rub.
“Whiskey will never be as delicious as a root beer float.” She leans in, and the straw slips between her lips as she takes a sip.
I watch every moment.
Watch her fingers curl around the fronted glass.
Watch her lips wrap around the straw.
Watch her eyes flutter shut for half a second.
When she straightens, she dabs her bottom lip with her thumb and smears a little foam.
“Are you going to try it?” She slides the glass closer to me. “It’s edible. I promise.”
“I was just enjoying watching you enjoy it.” I take the second straw, not that I’d mind sharing a straw with her.
Root beer and vanilla flood my tongue. Sweet, cold, and pure nostalgia.
She leans toward the other straw. “Not terrible, right?”
“It’s better than not terrible.”
“You can admit it, it’s delicious.” She sips.
“It’s delicious.”
“Even the whipped cream?”
I smirk. “Don’t push it.”
We sip at the same time like we’re in some retro movie.
When we finish, I catch her hand. “You know what I’m hungry for now?”
“Tell me.”
One hand slides to the side of her jaw. My thumb brushes the soft place under her cheekbone.
I kiss her, tasting the leftover vanilla ice cream sweetness on her lips. She leans in, and the stool swivels beneath her. Her hand grabs my forearm, but my other arm is already around her waist, steadying her.
The kiss deepens, hot and heavy. She slides off the stool and into my knee, grinding against my leg, her knee rubbing my cock under my jeans. My fingers thread into her hair, cupping the back of her head.
It’s fucking perfect.
“I think we should tour the rest of this time machine.” In one smooth motion, I scoop her up off the stool.
She gasps, arms wrapping instinctively around my neck.
“A tour?” Her legs tighten around my middle.
So damn perfect.
