Page 77 of A Taste of Vanilla

“I swear to God, if you’re going to ask if I’m sure again?—”

He laughs. A real one. Low and brief but beautiful.

I freeze.

He freezes too, as if it surprised him.

I smile slowly. “Oh, I’m keeping that.”

“Keeping what?”

“That laugh.”

“You’re not.”

“I am. I collect rare things.”

He kisses me hard, but I think it’s just to shut me up.

I get his jeans open.

He pushes his jeans down along with his briefs, and when he stands, I look.

And then I look again.

Heat rushes through me so fast I forget every language I have ever pretended to know.

Because yes. He’s big. Very big, in fact. A lot bigger than I’ve ever seen with my own eyes.

There is no polite internal phrasing available. My brain opens a tiny file labeled concern and immediately lights it on fire.

But that is not what makes my mouth go dry.

The piercing catches the lamplight.

A small flash of metal that makes absolutely no sense on the severe man from downstairs who orders black coffee and talks like an instruction manual.

I stare.

The silver barbell goes through the side of his tip, one bead catching the light, the other resting just under the crown.

Slowly, I lift my eyes to his.

His expression is unreadable, like usual. Except for the heat.

“You’re pierced,” I say.

His jaw works. “Yes.”

“I can see that.”

“You can.”

I swallow.

“Is it…” I stop, then laugh at myself because apparently I can say so many unhinged things in public but fall apart in front of one pierced man in my apartment. “Does it feel good?”

His gaze darkens. “For me?”