What the fucking fuck just happened?
Was I dreaming?
Imagining it?
I'm standing like a fool in the middle of the dance floor, staring at nothing—at the spot that Lia has just vacated—as Benny approaches me, handing over a brown mailer that right now is in the least of the things I give a fuck about.
Did that actually happen? Did Lia kiss me, rubbed herself on me, and then fucking leave like she snapped out of it or her time ran out like a fucking Cinderella trying to catch her pumpkin ride?
No sane woman kisses me and hurries to leave right after as if she regrets ever doing that.
What the hell?
I lick my lips, still tingling from the lingering feel of her, tasting the sweetness of her mouth on my tongue—she tastes like the nettarinas we grow in our farms in Emilia-Romagna, Italy–sweet, juicy, fragrant, and fucking exquisite.
