When he finishes a bite he’s been craving.
When he finishes me.
I nearly choke on a goddamn pickle.
“You okay?” he asks, instantly alert.
I nod, waving it off. “Just... spicy.”
I have no idea if it was.
We keep walking.
The space between us shrinks an inch at a time.
A little old woman tries to sell us herbal tonics.
Something for energy. Something for love. Something for male vitality.
I raise a brow at him.
He sputters.
I purr.
“You seem like someone who doesn’t need help in that department,” I say lightly, sipping the tiniest taste of one.
It tastes like twigs and mud.
He drinks his anyway.
Of course he does.
He’s earnest like that.
At the corner, I pause near a table of cheese wedges described in font so curly it feels like an affectation.
I pick one up and read aloud.
“Notes of umami and alpine breeze. Alpine breeze?” I repeat, staring at him. “Did a goat fuck a mountain?”
Vitaly laughs.
Full. Honest and unguarded.
God, it sounds like sunlight through a kitchen window.
I nearly come.
“You’re unexpected,” he says.
“I hope that’s good.”
He hesitates. Then looks at me. “It is.”
Oh.
There it is.
