She struck him with it, quick like lightning. A dangerous sting to his cheek, frying his nerve endings and intoxicating his senses.
He expected to smell her magic choking the air like ozone after a lightning strike. Instead, it was her magicless scent, nothing like peonies in spring—Musky like a fresh woman-child in full bloom.
He felt drunk like a bee buzzed from fermented nectar. She was a dangerous flower, the kind that could sting back.
She kissed his cheek again, and his toes curled. He was too intoxicated to remember the way home to the Queen Bee's hive.