Kayla Cumsalot 1844-33-CANDY ext 357
He stood at the dark window, scowling at the freshly falling snow outside. I slipped up behind him and wrapped my arms around his waist. My hands rubbed his bare chest and pulled his hard body back against my soft chest. My lips brushed lightly against the back of his neck. “Snow, in the last week of March,” the last words of his sentence were echoed inside of the glass in his hand as he drained the last of the amber-colored liquid.
“Come to bed,” I snickered, placing light kisses across his shoulder. He scoffed, not at me but at the winter wonderland outside, and didn’t budge, as if the heat of his glaring would melt the offending white stuff before it had a chance to stick.