“Mine,” he repeats, his hot breath warming my face. He smells like cinnamon, no doubt having just finished off one of his beloved Fireball candies. “Always mine.” Snowflakes land on my exposed flesh, but I don’t shiver because I’m warm in his embrace. More than warm. On fire. Blazing out of control. An unstoppable inferno. “My Torin,” I whisper, tilting my head up to offer him my lips. Maybe, just maybe, he’ll kiss me. Please. Please. Please. Someone bumps me from behind, stealing our moment. “There are children watching,” an older woman admonishes when she walks by. Torin and I break apart.
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