Page 74 of Melt for You (Slow Burn 2)
“Treats?” I sit up, already feeling better.
“Chocolate ice cream drizzled with Kahlúa.”
My gasp is low and thrilled. I thrust out my arms and wiggle my fingers. “Gimme.”
“No, we’re sharing.” He scoops up a spoonful of ice
cream and eats it, watching as I lick my lips. Then he scoops a spoonful for me and holds it out.
I let him feed it to me, feeling awkward but also comforted, like the time I had strep throat when I was ten and my mother fed me soup at my bedside. That was the last time I can recall that she didn’t make a disapproving face as she watched me eat.
“S’good,” I say around a cold mouthful of deliciousness. “But it’s not on my diet.”
“That’s why it’s called a treat.” He takes another bite, savoring it, licking the spoon like it’s a woman’s thigh. Or maybe that’s in my imagination. Watching him eat is distinctly sensual. “Food is fuel, but it’s also comfort. The trouble happens when it becomes more comfort than fuel. But that’s what hugs are for.”
He feeds me more ice cream, and I’m feeling better by the second. “You’re a very good hugger, by the way.”
“I know.”
We smile at each other.
“But am I a good kisser? That’s the real question, lass.” He eats more ice cream, waiting for my response with lifted brows.
“You waited until I was in a vulnerable state to ask that, didn’t you?”
“I’m not that stealthy. Here.” He holds out the spoon.
I savor the mouthful of creamy goodness, trying to make it last as long as possible as I wrack my brain for a neutral answer that doesn’t reveal just how thermonuclear I thought our kiss was. I decide on, “You seem very experienced.”
He makes a face. “That’s awfully clinical.”
“Oh, I’m sorry, is your ego throwing a tantrum because I didn’t say it was the hottest kiss I’ve ever had?”
He’s about to put another spoonful of ice cream in his mouth but pauses, holding the spoon to his lips. “Was it?”
Those damn piercing hazel eyes. I look down at the blanket, picking at a frayed bit of yarn. “It might . . . be up there.”
When he doesn’t say anything, I glance up at him under my lashes and find him grinning at me.
“Oh, shut up, prancer,” I mutter.
He wolfs down the bite of ice cream, smacking his lips. “For the record, it might’ve been up there for me, too.”
I’m startled and commence blinking rapidly like a crazed owl. “Really?”
“Really.”
I narrow my eyes at him. “You’re just trying to make me feel better.”
“Am I?” He takes another bite of ice cream, smiling around the spoon.
I flop backward onto the cushions and pull the blanket up over my face.
I hear a chuckle, low and pleased. “I’m tellin’ the truth, lass. You’re a champion kisser. Very fine. And not fine the way you Yanks use it—fine as in excellent.”
I flip the edge of the blanket down and peer at him.
“I don’t mean to make it sound like I don’t have anything else I could teach you,” he says casually, licking the spoon. He glances sideways at me. “For Michael, of course.”
