Dark Of Night
Sophia kissed him.
Dave Malkoff sat there, on a standard-issue stool in a generic travelers’ bar off the lobby of an equally unremarkable Sacramento hotel, as Sophia. Kissed. Him.
It wasn’t an accident. She hadn’t lost her balance and bumped into his lips with hers. No, no, that was her tongue lazily but quite intentionally exploring the inside of his mouth, her fingers in the hair at the nape of his neck, her lovely, lithe body pressing against him until she hit the barrier of the wooden seat between his open legs and could get no closer.
She tasted both sweet and salty, like the wine she’d been drinking mere moments ago, like the tears he knew she’d shed when the news had come down that James Nash was dead.
Dave’s stomach twisted and his heart clenched, and he almost—almost—pulled away to ask Sophia if this—this kiss, this embrace—was some kind of knee-jerk reaction to her grief over the loss of their friend and co-worker.
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