Page 12 of Kisses and Paperclips

I pause. I didn’t see that coming. I was expecting something political. Journalism, maybe. Corporate. Anything but that. A single beat where the words settle between us, light but charged. Like she’s waiting for my reaction. I should play it cool. Nod, ask a polite follow-up, move right along.

But my gaze betrays me.

It flickers to her hands.

Soft pink nails, tapping against her glass—delicate and feminine. And now I’m wondering if it matches the possible lace beneath her blouse. If it clings to her like a second skin, something silky soft and meant to be touched. I drag my eyes back up before I linger too long, but she’s already watching me, a knowing tilt of her lips.

I exhale, shaking my head, a quiet chuckle slipping out. “Lingerie?”

She shifts slightly, gaze flicking downward—right where my eyes had been a second ago. Right on her breast, she caught me. My jaw flexes, but her smirk only deepens.

“That’s funny to you?”

I let my arm drape over the back of the booth, taking my time with my answer. Letting her feel the way I’m watching her.

“Nah,” I said finally, voice smooth. “Didn’t expect you to make a living making men thirsty.”

She hums, swirling the last of her drink in her glass, gaze heavy-lidded and unreadable. “Oh, I don’t make them thirsty,” she murmured, her voice like the slow drag of silk. “They do that all on their own.”

I bite my tongue, interested to know where she’s going with this.

“They like to think they’re in control.” She said making a point to nod in my direction. Her voice is soft and unhurried. Like she’s sharing a secret meant only for me. Her eyes locked on mine. “But they never are.”

I arch a brow, intrigued. “No?”

She shakes her head once, slow and deliberate. “Men are visual creatures.”

Her voice is smooth, almost absentminded, as if she’s speaking a truth so simple, so undeniable, it doesn’t even need further thought. Her gaze flicks downward to the glass in her hand. Only ice remains.

She plucks a single cube between her fingertips, rolling it, watching the way it catches the dim light. Studying it like it holds secrets.

“It doesn’t even have to be something obvious.”

Her voice dips, quiet and contemplative, like she’s sharing a secret. One she already knows I’ll understand.

I shouldn’t be watching her fingers that closely. But I am.

The ice glistens against her skin as she turns it, lets it melt slightly, lets it slide between her fingertips like she’s testing the sensation.

Then, she lifts it to her lips.

Presses it there.

A slow drag. A shimmer of moisture left behind. And suddenly, the most innocent motion isn’t innocent at all. It’s something slower. Hotter. Something meant to be watched.

My grip tightens around my glass.

Whatever she’s doing, she knows exactly what it looks like.

And fuck if I’m not locked in.

I flick a glance around, half-expecting to find another poor bastard caught in the same spell. But there’s no one close enough to notice.

This is just for me.

She tilts her head slightly, eyes flicking up, studying my reaction beneath thick lashes. The ice still balanced between her fingers, just barely brushing her lips.

“The second an image is planted,” she murmured, voice a slow, teased drag of silk, “a man will do anything to bring it to life.”

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