He cups the fruit in his palm, then brings it near my chest. I draw a quick breath, then flick my hair off my shoulders. “By the way,” he says, “I like your hair up, but I fucking love it down.” Dead. I am dead from desire. Before I can reply—I’m honestly not sure I can form intelligible words—he rubs his other hand over the rind. “See, you want to find the one that’s ripe and”—he pauses and turns his face to meet my gaze, his dark eyes holding mine—“ready to eat.” A shudder hijacks my body. “Is that so?” I don’t need a tutorial in picking avocados. Please. I know how to pick them just fine. But I want his lesson. Want to hear his voice. Watch those hands move. Feel him slide closer. “It’ll feel slightly soft, and it’ll yield to just the right amount of gentle pressure.” And that pressure builds between my legs, an insistent throb. “How do you tell if it’s enough pressure?” He pushes a thumb against the flesh of the fruit, making a husky hum low in his throat. “Just like that. See how it responds?” “How’s it responding?” He turns, angling his body nearer to me, his dark eyes shining with desire as he roams them over my face, my hair, my breasts. “Just the way I like it.”
Confessions of a Bibliophile 