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An Excerpt From: LAW OF AVERAGES
Copyright © WYLIE KINSON, 2008
All Rights Reserved, Ellora's Cave Publishing,
Inc.
“Vanilla?” she asked when he came out holding two cones,
the chocolate one for her.
“What’s wrong with vanilla?” he asked, taking a seat
beside her on a bench in the shade.
“Nothing, I guess. It happens to one of my favorites,
but I’m surprised that you would pick something so,” unremarkable,
boring, “average, plain. I had you pegged as a mint chocolate chip kind
of guy, or maybe rocky road.” She purposely didn’t order the vanilla lest
she knock her average status down to mundane. There was simply no
imagination in vanilla, or so she thought.
“There’s nothing plain about it, Megan, and contrary to
popular belief, vanilla is a flavor.”
“Technically, yes.”
“Vanilla is rich, pure, creamy.”
He drew the last word out before running his tongue up the side of the
rounded mound. His eyes, flashing a mixture of mischief and lust, locked on
hers, sending her wicked thoughts of other mounds under that tongue. “And I
don’t like to have to chew my ice cream. I like it smooth, so it melts in
my mouth and slides down my throat.” His eyes grew dark as the corners of
his mouth twitched up. His thigh brushed against hers.
Megan gulped, his innuendo was as clear as the cloudless
sky. Heat pooled between her legs, making her sorry she didn’t wear
panties. She squirmed in her seat, felt the slickness between her thighs.
“You’re dripping.”
Gah! How could he know?
She was dizzy with excitement, embarrassment, and the feverish heat that
began between her legs rose all the way up her body until her cheeks
reddened in a full-on blush. She pressed her thighs tightly together. Maybe
he could smell her. She inhaled deeply, searching for that telltale scent
of arousal, but all she smelled was flowers, ice cream and him—his
masculine, sun-touched skin, like a breeze from heaven.
“You’d better start licking,” he said, holding out a
napkin. His eyes locked on her lips.
Megan glanced down. Ah, dripping. Her
knuckles were covered in rivers of chocolate as the ice cream succumbed to
the heat.
“Come, let’s go for a walk,” he said, rising.
They left the parking lot of Bailey’s Ice Cream, Megan
carefully avoiding stones and keeping to the grassy patches. She walked one step behind him, madly licking her cone and staring
at his backside.
I’ll take a scoop of ice cream and a cuppable ass, to go.
She stifled a giggle.
She followed his lead onto the sidewalk which was shaded
by a row of evenly spaced, stubby palm trees. Gabriel’s attention was on
the rowdy party that was in full swing on the patio of a pub across the
narrow street.
“Did you want to go over?” she asked from behind him.
“Sorry?”
“The Swizzle Inn.” She flicked her chin forward. “Did
you want to go hang out?”
She looked back at the party in progress and realized
that a few of the revelers openly stared back at them. One of them pointed
and said something to the others at his table and all heads turned toward
them. Megan instantly looked down to make sure her tube top was in place.
No wardrobe malfunctions here, thank goodness. Gabriel took the black
wraparound sunglasses that hung on the neckband of his T-shirt and fixed
them onto his face. He hooked his arm through hers and picked up the pace,
positioning her between him and the road.
Ouch, ow, damn! Hot pavement. This
wasn’t a good idea.
As much as she liked the contact, her arm linked
casually through his like lovers, the soles of her feet were taking a
beating. She untwined her arm and skirted around the back of him so she
could walk on the grassy embankment.
“Bloody hell. Sorry,” he said, looking at her feet. “I
forgot. There’s a park just up ahead. Think you can make it?”
“No prob,” she lied and
dropped her sunglasses back onto her nose.
They walked in silence, Megan lapping up her ice cream
before it started dripping onto her white skirt. If she wasn’t so obsessed
with watching Gabriel eat his ice cream, the way his tongue flattened
itself against the cool mound as he twirled the cone with his long, tapered
fingers; if she wasn’t so obsessed with the way his cheeks hollowed when he
used his lips—his luscious, archer’s bow lips—to suck at the peak, all the
while trying to keep her balance on the sloping grass; if she wasn’t so
obsessed with trying to keep up with his long-legged stride and thinking
about those short-shorts only seen in Italian Vogue hugging his tush, she might have noticed the patrons across the
street snapping photos and shouting “Angel”.
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