"Then I would be expecting your call, so I can choose the location I return it to," Miguel said to Fedora, with his usual arrogance. He closed the microscopic distance left between them, lowering his head in a slow, deliberate, predatory slant.
Then, the trap sprang with a smirk.
"I just want you to know that you really made my day, pookie."
His warm, minty breath fanned out, subtly smooching Fedora's chin and neck with a sickening sweet intimacy, as Fedora stood stiff, a statue of unadulterated rage. Fedora was unresponsive, but his internal pressure cooker was screaming.
The only parts of him that moved were his eyes, narrowing into sharp, sour glares, projectiles of hate so intense that Miguel's physical closeness became the least of his worries.
