Her taste lingered on his tongue long after the first kiss, and for Frank, that was a dangerous thing.
He had known Marjorie for years — she was the owner of the little bookstore he visited every Wednesday. Sixty-five, sharp-witted, with hair like spun silver, she had always been polite, teasing in that quiet, impossible-to-ignore way that made every man in town slightly nervous. Frank had never imagined he’d find himself standing in her small kitchen, alone, with the faint scent of vanilla from her tea mixing with something more primal in the air.
It began when she offered to show him her homemade fudge. He’d taken a bite, and she had leaned closer, just enough that her lips brushed against his. A simple, polite thing — but her tongue had caught his in a slow, deliberate press that lingered, teasing. He tasted the chocolate and something else — her — lingering in the corners of his mouth, teasing his senses in a way he couldn’t shake.
Marjorie pulled back slightly, her eyes holding his, glinting with mischief. Every subtle movement — the tilt of her head, the way she let her hand hover near his arm, the small brush of her wrist against his — was deliberate. Frank felt every millimeter of contact, every heartbeat amplified.
“Careful,” she whispered, almost a joke, but her breath tickled his ear. The sound sent shivers down his spine.
He wanted to touch her, to taste her again, but Marjorie’s body language made him hesitate. She wasn’t hurried — every motion was slow, measured, filled with tension. The slow sway of her hips as she moved to the counter, the way she held the fudge plate, the deliberate crossing of her legs — it all spoke louder than words.
Frank’s hand brushed hers as he reached for a piece of fudge. The contact was electric, lingering just a fraction too long, and he felt her pulse under his fingers. Marjorie’s lips parted slightly, her eyes dropping to his hand, then lifting, locking his gaze.
She moved closer again, and he smelled her perfume mingling with the chocolate — rich, intoxicating. Her tongue barely grazed his again, teasing, fleeting, leaving a memory that set his nerves alight.
The tension built with every breath, every inch of proximity. Frank’s mind was spinning — he knew he shouldn’t, but every nerve in his body screamed to follow, to give in. Marjorie’s slow, deliberate gestures told him all he needed to know: she wanted this, but on her terms.
Hours later, even after he left, the memory lingered. Every brush of her hand, every glide of her tongue in that slow, teasing kiss haunted him. Her taste — sweet, warm, impossibly intimate — lingered on his lips and in his memory, a silent promise that she had let him close enough to feel, but not too close.
Frank knew he would return. Not just for the fudge, not just for the kisses. He would return because her slow, deliberate movements, the teasing curl of her fingers, the way her tongue lingered on his, had opened a door he didn’t know existed — and he couldn’t resist stepping through it again.