Page 180 of Soul Mates: Hercules Valentine and I

30 Minutes Later

Hercules and I have decided to go to the street festival at Washington Square Park. New Yorkers sunbathe around the fountain, on the steps, and on just about every bench. Some people passing by squint at Hercules with recognition. Next, their eyes dart to me. But that’s about all the attention we get. New Yorkers aren’t gawkers.

Hercules has bought us both ice cream cones. He’s eating chocolate, and I asked for cookies and cream.

“They make that?” he asked.

I laughed. “You never heard of cookies and cream?”

“I never eat ice cream,” he said, wearing the most handsome grin on earth.

“But you’re eating it now,” I replied, flirting shamelessly.

“Because I’m with you.”

Luck working its magic for us, we came upon a bench just as couple got up to leave.

His knee is against my leg again, just like yesterday. He’d only taken one lick of ice cream.

“This tastes like shit,” he says.

I jerk my head back. “Let me taste it.”

He puts his cone in front of my lips, and I lick. A sweet rich chocolate flavor spreads through my mouth. “Umm. It’s delicious. You’re crazy.”

Hercules’s eyes roam my face. “Just one.” His Adam’s apple bobs, then he moistens his lower lip.

“Just one what?” I ask even though I know exactly what he’s referring to.

“Kiss.”

Scores of others are around us, yet it feels as if we are the only two people in the world.

“Are we capable of just one?”

It happens slowly, but quickly too. Maybe in slow motion. Or perhaps it’s as rapid as gunfire. His tongue slips into the crease of my parted lips. My head spins as our lips meet and we engage in the silkiest, sweetest-tasting kiss ever.

A whimper escapes me. We both release soft sighs and moans. Instinctively, I press my hand on top of his crotch. His cock is as hard as steel. Gosh, I miss having it inside me, thrusting and searching for my hot spots.

Remember, Paisley. He’s engaged.

Yes, but the fluttering in my chest, stomach, and other places won’t stop. Still, I force my lips and tongue to abandon his. And when we lose mouth contact, the deprivation of not connecting with him hits me hard.

“Sorry,” I whisper. My eyes are still closed, and my hand—gasping and thoroughly embarrassed, I take my hand off his penis. I look around to see who’s watching. Nobody. Only in New York City can two lovers kiss like their lives depend on it and massage a cock in public and no one cares.

“I’m the one who—”

Plop.

We both look down at his crotch. Chocolate ice cream covers his bulge.

Plop.

Cookies and cream ice cream, which has streaked down my hand, has now fallen off the cone and is on the ground next to my sandal.

“I can use the cool down,” Hercules says, looking down at his protrusion.

Then both of us break out in laughter.