Your palate wasn’t quite as refined as Antonin’s, but that didn’t stop him from trusting it—valuing your reactions more than any critic’s.

He grinned as he held out his finger to you, tipped with a cloud of whipped cream.

“Can you taste the difference?”

You licked it carefully, thoughtful. “One uses granulated sugar and the other…”

“Confectioner’s sugar,” he finished for you, watching you closely.

You tilted your head, a spark in your eye. “I didn’t taste that… maybe I need to try again.”

Without waiting for a reply, you dipped your finger into the cream and, instead of bringing it to your lips, you reached out—smirking—and gently spread it along the side of his neck. Your lips trailed behind, warm and slow, licking up the sweetness like it was the only thing that mattered.

He inhaled sharply, the muscles of his jaw tightening for a breath before a slow, wicked smile tugged at his lips.

"You’re playing a dangerous game," he murmured, voice roughened by restraint.

His hand came to rest lightly at your waist—testing, not yet pulling you closer, but close enough to ask without words.