He ducks his head. “Is Russian. Not so beautiful.”
“No,” I say, and I mean it. “It is.”
I offer him a soft smile. The kind that says I’m harmless, right before I take a bite out of someone’s soul.
“Thanks for the help, Vitaly,” I add, testing his name on my tongue.
It tastes like honey cake and future orgasms.
I watch his pupils dilate slightly when I say it back.
He ducks his head like a schoolboy offered a compliment. As if he didn’t just electrify me by touching me for a second and a half.
Perfect.
He should like the way I say his name.
He’s going to hear it a lot.
“You shop here a lot?” I ask, pivoting, walking slow enough for him to fall in step.
He walks beside me like we’re two strangers with casual smiles and no shared gravity.
Like I didn’t already memorize the veins on his forearms and imagine them flexing above me.
“Every week,” he says, glancing over.
God, even his walk is gentle. Like he’s afraid of stepping on bugs or dreams.
We pass a stand with cut strawberries dipped in dark chocolate.
A bored teenager offers us skewers.
I take one.
Pop the whole thing in my mouth.
Chocolate melts.
Berry bursts.
Juice and sweetness flood my tongue.
I moan.
Can’t help it.
It’s indecent.
The kind of sound that belongs in a bedroom, not a farmer’s market.
I can feel the war happening behind his eyes.
Polite man vs. the part of him that wants to pin me against the nearest stall and see what other sounds he can make me swallow.
I lick juice from my thumb.
Slow.
