“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 sens
