I felt his touch slow and sensual, his lips claiming mine in a slow, dominant way. I closed my eyes tight. It was nothing like the time on our first day in Paris, and before I could process exactly how it felt, his lips weren't on mine anymore.
It felt more like a candle had been held out in pitch darkness, and just before the lights, a gust of wind blew off the candle, leaving me stranded.
I opened my eyes slowly and looked up at him. He was back to his glass again, his hand tucked in his pockets as he looked straight ahead.
"You wanted to vent on my lips?"
He didn't look at me. "No."
"Then?"
"I wanted to see if your voice and your lips speak the same language. They apparently don't." He turned to me and let his eyes sweep over me, and he gave a small smirk.
I turned a bright pink
