August 16, 2016 by Lyn
He smiles warmly. “You’re a sweet girl, aren’t you?”
You find yourself blushing a little, smiling widely in that way you hate because it makes grandmothers pinch your cheeks. “Sweet girl” is something grandmothers call people, too… but somehow, the way he says it sounds more adult, mysterious and sexy.
“I guess I can be.” You’re trying for sultry but it just comes out corny, so you add “If you want me to be.”
His smile just gets bigger. “Sweet? Yes.” He hesitates for a moment, as if sharing a joke with himself. “I want you to be sweet.”
“Okay.” His voice makes you feel funny, hard-cider giddy and warm all the way through, like you can’t quite think straight and don’t really care anymore.
He brushes his hand across your eyes, and you find yourself falling into a cloud of warm, fuzzy, pink clouds. Rainbows twist and turn in the sunlight, and a giant housecat curls up next to you and purrs and purrs.
There’s a brief, sharp pain in your neck, but the cat licks you, and the pain is gone. Slowly, you fade into sleep.
You wake later in the dark, leaning against the door to your room. You feel faint and a little giddy, with vague memories of pink butterflies and kittens and a warm, cheerful smile.