The Cynical dare to risk the Romantic; Fiction of course.

Every second that I spent with him was torture of the most delectable kind. A strange raw electricity filled the air between us. We were like dancers, warriors, circling each other but never quite touching. At the slightest hint of surrender one or the other drew back, frightened of what conclusion we may reach. He reached forward and brushed my cheek with the back of his hand. The feel of his skin on mine both delighted and scared me. The blood flowed to my face. I looked up at him in what was intended to be merely a glance but the look in his eyes captured mine.

He leaned towards me till I could see every fleck of gold in his gray eyes. My heart thumped so loudly against my chest that I was sure he could hear it too. Then he very gently crossed the short distance between us and pressed his lips against mine, leaning over the table that parted our bodies. I could taste the mocha on the edges of his mouth as he deepened contact. The kiss was a short one, sweet as honey but bitter as vinegar. It was the epitome of our relationship, so terribly wrong and destructive but at the same time so overwhelmingly wonderful that even this brief embrace left me speechless. My lips trembled. I couldn’t utter a word.

I took a deep breath, slowly returning to the world around me; shocked to find that the café was now almost full with the morning rush. My cheeks grew red with embarrassment. In a customary nervous habit I began pulling down the ends of my long sleeves. He seemed to notice my discomfort and acknowledged it with a slightly crooked grin. Far braver souls than I had melted at the sight of that smile.