I want to kiss her.
I can’t get away from it. I easily recognize this delicious electric tension that runs through my groin, and it’s a f*****g bad sign!
It’s only when I decipher the troubled expression of her face that I can put some distance between us. I know myself too well: I’m flirting and now I’m a hunter stalking his prey.
“Good. The chocolate cake, now.”
If I don’t look at her like a damn hungry dog looking at a bone, it’s going to be okay.
With this idea, I focus on the knife while she cuts equal shares.
However, at every gesture, her hair, her body, or her clothes exude a soft and feminine scent. My nostrils are quivering and my pupils are probably now the size of a football field.
When she lifts her head, after placing a piece of cake on a plate, our eyes cross and I ho
