Just for a second, just when their lips meet -- and damn, does she always taste like strawberries? -- he feels like he could almost sort of dwell right here in this moment and not have too many concerns about all those other moments. Like her mouth is so soft and warm and inviting that he could put away the schemes and the cons and the plans and all that stuff.

But no, a pair of soft inviting lips ain't enough to catch all his attention. Not now, or not yet. Maybe when he's old and out of energy and his mind stops thinkin' like it does. Maybe then he might settle with one woman.

Or maybe they could play house together on some asteroid. The concept's tempting. If it wasn't for the little voice going you run, I con, he might even want to give it a shot.

Odds are she's thinkin' along the same lines, so when she pulls back it don't bother him as much as it maybe ought to. He ain't necessarily the possessive type, or maybe he just don't know that about himself yet.

(I've never been in love.)

(The look on her face then, firelight gleamin' off it.)

His hand follows her over her hair; they fall into companionable steps together. "I was bein' literal about it, Freckles. Got to make up for the ones they cleaned up out of my room yesterday." If she can't hear his stomach growlin', she's deaf.

Restaurant ought to be safer. They can sit across from each other at the table, all civilized, and he'll try real hard not to let his body remember that mouth of hers on him yesterday. No, he'll just let her eat her fries and burger, drink her ice-cold Coke, be on his way.

If only he could stop thinkin' about her so damn much.