Page 52 of Man Handler
“I’ve never been kissed like that,” she says. “You stole the heat but left the warmth. I—”
“That was some good ice cream,” I tell her.
“Yeah, yeah, I have a cold sweat but isn’t from the ice cream. I—”
I read between her lines and cup my hands around her face, taking her lips back as my own. I touch my tongue to her bottom lip, tasting more hints of the spice. It burns, but like any addiction, I want more.
She breaks away this time. “Austin, I can hardly stand.”
“I’ve got ya.”
“You have a little more spice in you than I gave you credit for,” I tell her. “I’m impressed.”
“And you have a bit more sweetness that I thought,” she says. Our words are soft and more like whispers that seem to be stolen by the breeze whistling through the tree limbs above us.
I press my lips to hers once more, just for a small second, before I have to end the moment and take her to find us some drinks. Personally, I’d rather suffer from this lingering burn for as long as possible.
