Nov 29, 2024
“Can I be honest, Kristoff?” Anna said, as if there were a chance he’d refuse her. She’d been said no to so many times, he tried to save it for her most extravagant schemes like the series of windmills she wanted to install to power a new chocolate-making company run by refugees with curious orange complexions.
“Of course,” he said, trailing his hand in the bath’s warm water, letting his fingers find her thigh, hip, her chestnut curls.
“I thought you’d want to do things with ice,” she said.
“Things?”
“Sexy things,” she said. “But I like the heat better.”
