We were at a stop light, waiting for it to change. On the radio, Dean Martin sang something lush and romantic in Italian.
I glanced across at Portia. Her head rested against the back of the seat, and her eyes were closed, the lashes fanning out against her soft cheek.
“Portia.”
“I’m not sleeping.” She smiled and turned her head toward me.
“Portia.” I’d never felt like this before. A glance in the rearview mirror showed the empty street. I stepped down on the clutch and threw the stick shift into neutral, then reached for her and covered her lips with mine. I couldn’t stop myself from tasting her mouth.
Vaguely I was aware that the stop light must have changed—the light against my eyelids flickered once, twice, three times. I sighed and brushed my lips over her cheek to her ear, nuzzli
