Jasmine & Antonio

When we break apart, neither of us moves away. My heart is pounding like I’ve just run a marathon, which is pathetic. It was one kiss. I’ve kissed plenty of women.

None of them felt like this.

“That was...” she starts.

“Yeah.”

“Strange.”

I blink. “Strange?”

“I don’t know.” She taps her index finger against her chin. “You kissed better in Vegas.”

“Excuse me?” I must have heard her wrong. There’s no way she just said that.

“I said what I said.”

“You’re rating my kisses now?”

“Just making an observation.” She shrugs, the picture of innocence. “In Vegas, there was more... passion. This one was nice, but—“

“Nice.”

“Very nice. Sweet, even. Like a kiss you’d give your grandmother.”

“I did not kiss you like I’d kiss my grandmother.”

“There was definitely some grandmother energy.”

I stare at her. She stares back, eyes wide and guileless, but I can see the laughter she’s holding in.

This woman. This infuriating, beautiful woman who’s been driving me crazy for months is telling me I kiss like someone’s avô.

“You think you’re funny,” I say.

“I know I’m hilarious.”

“You’re not.”

“Then why are you smiling?”

I close the distance and kiss her properly. Kiss her until she’s breathless and her hand slides up from my shirt to the back of my neck, until she makes that sound again, the one that nearly undid me in Vegas and is doing an excellent job of undoing me now.

When I pull back, her eyes are dazed.

“Better?” I ask.

She takes a moment to catch her breath. “Adequate.”

I laugh despite myself. “Meu Deus. You’re playing me.”