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"Now, we already know you like sex, so let's move along to old movies. Do you have a favorite?" Noah asked.
"Ah, wait a second. We don't know that I like sex," Mich retorted.
"Sure we do," he said, brushing a finger along the soft skin of her arm. "Casablanca, right?"
"No, that's not my favorite." She snatched her arm away. "And how do we know that I like sex?"
He chuckled. "You're not exactly a subtle woman, Michelin."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"It means," he said, "that every time I get this close to you, your eyes get a little darker, almost black, very mysterious. Your breath comes a little faster." He ran his finger down the column of her neck to the pulse skipping along at the bottom of it. "Your heart beats a little faster and your skin gets warmer."
"Stop that! I'm driving. And you're dead wrong. I feel fine." A quick eye to the speedometer, and she took her foot off the gas to slow everything down.
"You do indeed," he said, sliding his finger back up her neck, under her chin, and across her lower lip. "So soft. Warm. Very fine. Downright irresistible."
"You'd better stop that," she muttered, but to her ears it sounded like more, more, more. Then she pulled the car over and punched the brake to the floor....