Page 48 of Touch

The way his forehead crinkles brings out the mischievousness in her. “Spring,” she says, keeping a straight face.

“Spring,” he repeats, dubious as he takes a sip.

“Yes. Dewdrops, a dash of the sunlight, the afterglow of sex—”

He lurches forward in shock and spits out the tea.

With the blanket still covering her, Love keels over laughing. “Peonies,” she cackles. “Only peonies.”

His eyes widen. After a moment, her mortal guest breaks down and joins in her laughter, his smile cutting Love into a million pieces. Their limbs almost touch—yet they shall never touch.

Defiantly, she scoots closer. Her tongue darts out between the slit of her mouth and runs across her bottom lip. Again, Andrew’s grin fades. His fervent gaze stimulates the cleft of her thighs, and Love wishes she could reciprocate, yet the onlypart of her that reaches Andrew is her voice and breath. She wants both to slide across his flesh, slip down the arch of his tongue, and make him swallow thickly.

Suddenly, his features twist, and his attention shifts to her bed. “Do you sleep?”

“Yes.”

“Do you get sick?”

“No.”

“Can you get wounded?”

“Yes.”

“Fatally wounded?”

“Only in battle or from torture.”

“But you don’t die of old age.”

“Never.”

“Do you have tear ducts?”

“What?”

“Do you cry?”

“I don’t—”

“Why are you leaning forward?”

“Because—”

“You’d like to strangle me.”

“I want—”

“And you’re clenching your teeth.”

“Because—”

“You need me to stop?”

“No—”

“This is called an interrogation.”

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