You complimented the whisky on its burn
while I scowled a tight lipped pucker against my teeth
as if I could suck the taste away.
Smoke stung I groped for something sweeter,
hands landing on skin instead,
you pressed fire kisses to my mouth.
I think I’ll have another crack at the Quadrille Prompt ‘burn’ later on tonight because I’m not happy with how this one turned out. The last line doesn’t sit quite right but I ran out of words.