Page 73 of A Taste of Vanilla
Every word seems to settle into him.
He nods once. “Okay.”
Then his hands are on me. Not tentative or distant. He kisses me again, turning us so my back hits the wall instead of his. One hand slides into my hair, careful of the bow at first and then much less careful when I make an impatient sound against his mouth.
His lips move to my jaw. To my throat. To the sensitive spot beneath my ear that makes my fingers dig into his shoulders.
“Oh God,” I moan.
I shove my cardigan off my shoulders and feel it drop to the ground in a soft blue heap.
He lifts his head, his eyes moving over me.
White tank, gold necklace, bare shoulders. Pink bow coming loose in my hair. A body that has lifted flour bags, sheet pans, and mixers and somehow gets cruelly evaluated by my brain at the worst times.
He looks at me as if he has nowhere else to be. Like there’s not a single thing he wants to miss.
My stomach flutters.
“You look at people intensely,” I say.
“You’re not people.”
I forget how to breathe.
His words are unfair.
They’re too much.
They are exactly enough.
I grab the hem of his henley, and he catches my wrist.
“What?”
“Light.”
I blink. “What?”
He nods toward the lamp by the mattress. I had left it off, only the city glow filtering through the window.
“You want it off or on?”
“Your choice,” he says, but I know what he would prefer, or else he wouldn’t have pointed it out.
“On,” I say, flipping the switch. “I want to see you.”
His jaw tightens.
“Your turn,” I say.
His eyes lift to mine.
For a second, I think he’s going to say no. Then, he reaches back, grips the collar of his shirt, and pulls it over his head.
Oh.
My brain is already operating with limited staff, and it shuts down completely.
