Every Sunday I share Six Sentences from one of my books or current WIP
I realized he was cupping my hip with his hand, his eyes an inch away, his sculpted lips parting in surprise.
“Your hand is on…” I whispered, drawn to the scent of amber and brown sugar wafting from him. Black stubble formed down his cheeks and across the upper lip. My teeth bit down at the thought of it scratching against my lips. His eyes were like trying to stare into the sun, and my gaze traveled down his arms, mapping every curve and divot. “…my cake,” I said, remembering why I was in this back room in the first place.
“Yes,” Antony smiled, raising the offending baked good as if in a toast, “yes I am.”