The flower is chill with dew and scent, but wherever its waxy petals light, a spark of heat ignites beneath my skin.
“Stop,” I say. But I don’t move away.
Fine hairs stand as the flower kisses them lightly. My neck burns.
“Make me stop,” he whispers. A challenge.
I grab his wrist. The flower falls.
The bark of the tree must hurt as he’s pushed against it but from the look in his eyes it’s a sweet pain.
“Make me stop,” I say. A challenge.
But he doesn’t.
