Page 77 of A Taste of Vanilla
“I swear to God, if you’re going to ask if I’m sure again?—”
He laughs. A real one. Low and brief but beautiful.
I freeze.
He freezes too, as if it surprised him.
I smile slowly. “Oh, I’m keeping that.”
“Keeping what?”
“That laugh.”
“You’re not.”
“I am. I collect rare things.”
He kisses me hard, but I think it’s just to shut me up.
I get his jeans open.
He pushes his jeans down along with his briefs, and when he stands, I look.
And then I look again.
Heat rushes through me so fast I forget every language I have ever pretended to know.
Because yes. He’s big. Very big, in fact. A lot bigger than I’ve ever seen with my own eyes.
There is no polite internal phrasing available. My brain opens a tiny file labeled concern and immediately lights it on fire.
But that is not what makes my mouth go dry.
The piercing catches the lamplight.
A small flash of metal that makes absolutely no sense on the severe man from downstairs who orders black coffee and talks like an instruction manual.
I stare.
The silver barbell goes through the side of his tip, one bead catching the light, the other resting just under the crown.
Slowly, I lift my eyes to his.
His expression is unreadable, like usual. Except for the heat.
“You’re pierced,” I say.
His jaw works. “Yes.”
“I can see that.”
“You can.”
I swallow.
“Is it…” I stop, then laugh at myself because apparently I can say so many unhinged things in public but fall apart in front of one pierced man in my apartment. “Does it feel good?”
His gaze darkens. “For me?”
