Free First Position by Melody Grace

calories that must be packed into one
tiny scoop of the treat. It’s probably more than my whole daily
allowance!
    He walks on ahead, so I follow him to take our place in the line, my
mind racing for an excuse. I should have told him something the very
first time he mentioned it—that I was allergic, or
lactose-intolerant. Anything to avoid the truth.
    “When I found this place, I came every day for a week to try
their flavors.” Raphael confides. He leans his arm against the
wall beside my head, propped just inches away from me. I breathe in
the clean, fresh scent of him and try to stay calm. I’ll
explain about my diet, about the training. He’ll understand.
    Or he’ll think you’re crazy, and run like hell in the
opposite direction.
    “Are you OK?” Raphael looks down at me with concern. “You
look kind of pale.”
    “No!” I yelp. “Fine. I mean, I feel great.”
    We reach the front of the line. The freezer cabinets are
glass-fronted, filled with delicious cartons of a rainbow of flavors.
They look amazing, and just the scent is enough to make my mouth
water—and the hairs on the back of my neck prickle in a cold,
sweaty panic.
    “She’ll get the hazelnut,” Raphael tells the
assistant, once we make it inside the tiny store. “And the
pistachio, too.” He turns to me. “They’re the
best.”
    “Uh huh.” I can feel my throat constrict, but I try to
stay calm. It’s crazy, I know, freaking out over one tiny ice
cream, but I can’t help it. I’ve spent years counting
every precious morsel I allow between my lips, calculating calories
and fat units, knowing that the slightest slip-up will edge me
further and further away from my goal weight.
    Raphael pays, and we stroll outside. Across the street is a tiny
park. Raphael takes me to a bench, and we sit. “For you.”
He presents my gelato to me with a funny little bow. It’s huge:
a towering cone, with two massive scoops on top.
    I gulp. I can only imagine what my mom would say if she saw me eating
this, or even Mademoiselle.
    But even so, I feel a prickle of rebellion. God, how long has it even
been since I tasted ice cream? Real ice cream, not that fat-free,
taste-free frozen yogurt we keep in the freezer at home for a treat.
    Years. It’s got to be years.
    “I...” I open my mouth to tell him everything, but at
that moment, a drip of gelato melts down the cone and rolls down onto
my wrist. Without thinking, I lift my hand to my mouth to lick it
off.
    I stop dead, feeling the cool sensation slide down my throat, tasting
the dense, nutty sweetness of the hazelnut, rich and delicious, an
explosion of pleasure on my tongue. I take another lick and moan out
loud. “God, this is so good!”
    I devour the gelato, savoring the sweetness and creamy cool. When I
finish, I look up. Raphael is watching me hungrily – an
expression that has nothing to do with food.
    I freeze, blood suddenly pounding in my ears.
    Slowly, he reaches over, and wipes a smear from the corner of my
lips. He takes his thumb back to his mouth and sucks, his eyes never
leaving mine.
    Liquid heat rushes through me, pooling tight between my thighs.
    Oh my God.
    Still holding my gaze, Raphael scoops a smear of chocolate from his
cone and holds his finger out to me. “Taste,” he orders
softly.
    My stomach turns a slow somersault. I can’t look away, totally
caught in his hot, fevered gaze as I close my lips around his finger
and suck.
    It’s the most erotic moment of my life. We’re in the
middle of the park, in broad daylight, fully-clothed, but somehow I
feel like we’re naked as I slowly lick my tongue against the
rough skin of his finger, sucking every taste of velvety chocolate
gelato clean.
    Raphael makes a noise that’s partway between a low groan and a
growl.
    It makes the ache in my core clench and tighten. To know he feels
this too, that he’s just as affected by our crazy chemistry as
I am.
    “I want to know how you taste,” he tells me, his eyes
flashing. He