“Sorry, hi. You look like someone who knows what they’re doing. Are these good? I’m trying for something that will add joy to my kitchen.”
He smells like warm sugar and summer sweat.
My knees whisper threats to my spine.
“You look like you know your way around… flowers,” I purr.
Or beds.
Or me.
Definitely me.
He blushes.
Blushes.
I’m going to die here and the headline will be: Local Woman Ascends After Accidental Erotic Overload.
He takes the flower from my hand like it’s delicate.
Like I’m delicate.
Sweet, silly man.
I’d rip out someone’s throat for him and still be home in time to suck his fingers clean of pastry cream.
He compares stems.
Talks about sturdiness and brightness like it matters.
I only hear the cadence of his voice and imagine it groaning my name against a headboard.
He picks one.
Offers it to me.
Our fingers touch.
Oh.
Oh fuck.
The air doesn’t just snap.
It detonates.
Electric doesn’t cover it.
This is live wire pressed to wet skin.
This is nerve endings lit up like a fucking Christmas tree.
He jumps.
I don’t.
Can’t.
