I pour the pale figure a steaming mug.
A smack of the lips; a sigh.
“It’s the only thing I miss,” in a wistful contralto. “They don’t make it right up there. All these caramel and mochalatto and Sumatra roasted subtleties when I want diner grade black. You’re an angel.”
Dee Maselle writes steamy romance. She makes her home in infinite alternate universes.