Page 13 of Kisses and Paperclips

Her words settle, thick and charged.

And then—slowly, excruciatingly slowly—she presses the cube fully to her lips.

Lets the cold bite into them.

Lets the anticipation linger.

And then—her mouth parts, just enough.

The ice slips past the curve of her lips, disappearing inch by inch until it’s gone, her tongue flicking against it before she pulls it fully into her mouth.

My jaw flexes. My pulse kicks up.

And she sits there, watching me, like she didn’t just set my blood on fire with nothing but a damn ice cube.

Fuck.

Now, I had the image of her on her knees—lips parted, eyes locked on mine—giving me the same slow, deliberate treatment as that ice cube.

“It’s getting hot in here, isn’t it?” her brown eyes dancing with mischief. She’s not playing fair, and she’s enjoying every minute of it. Her words sit between us, thick in the air, charged in a way that makes my fingers itch against the glass. I study her, watching how she owns this moment—like she already knows how it will play out.

“And you?”

Her brows lift slightly. “What about me?”

I tilt my head, considering her. “What does it take to get you to lose control?”

It’s slight, so slight I almost miss it. That flicker of hesitation. Her fingers still against the table before she shifts, recovering smoothly. But I caught it. She exhales, gaze flicking to her glass before landing back on mine.

“You have to work to find out.”

***

I glance at my watch and realize we’ve been talking for over two hours. We moved from the booth to the bar. After Serena finished her meal, she convinced me to try a po boy, and then she even had the nerve to pick some of the shrimp off it. If she was anybody else, she wouldn’t be able to get away with that shit, but so far, I can’t deny this woman of anything, and that’s a dangerous game.

I liked sitting at the bar with her; it felt intimate, like we were in our own little world.

The bar lights made her look even prettier.

I picture how sexy it would be, her lips slightly parted and her face lost in pleasure as I stroke deep in that pussy, hearing her chant my name like a prayer.

Her body was so close I could feel the warmth radiating from her skin, and she was turned to face me, fully engaged—a good sign.

I looked down and saw her skirt was hiked up, giving me a peek at her thick thighs, my gaze traveling down her toned legs and black fuck me heels, sharp and sexy. Every detail, from her curves to her confidence, is just one big tease.

She’s had my dick so hard I could hardly think straight.

Neither of us was drinking. So I can’t even blame it on the liquor. I’d started ordering Shirley Temples for both of us, figuring it felt rude to drink when she wasn’t. It turns out that sipping cherry soda while she laughed at my jokes wasn’t so bad.

We’ve talked about everything—favorite R&B songs, old-school jams, and our go-to TV shows. I tell her I’m all about The Wire and Breaking Bad, the kind of shows that get gritty, no holds barred. She laughs, saying she’s more into Scandal and Grey’s Anatomy, like that’s supposed to surprise me. But no matter what we talked about my mind kept going back to one thing.

I raised an eyebrow, throwing her a look. “Alright, alright, I’ll try your shows,” I said, “if you promise to watch a real classic… The Professional.” She rolls her eyes, but a sparkle in them said she just might.

“What’s that about? A Banker who cleans money for the mafia?” She shrugs.

“You’ve never seen the professional?”

She rolls her eyes at the way I say it; she hasn’t seen most of the movies I suggested, so it shouldn’t be a shock that she hadn’t seen it, but I like getting under her skin as much as I want to make her laugh.

---