“It’s late,” I said. An obvious ‘end of the evening’ type fact: It was 1am.
He nodded agreement, got up from the couch.
We wandered over to the door. I smiled, thanked him for the wonderful dinner.
I stood a little taller than him in my heels. We were essentially eye-to-eye, standing a little too close. A slight hesitance, both leaning in for a kiss.
It was a quizzical kind of kiss. A question mark. Very sweet, whispering of curiosity. My fingers went automatically around the front of his throat, holding him there.
Soft, his lips. So soft.
Lingering tender kisses, exploratory touch of tongues, shared breaths, feeling his pulse under my fingers.
His fingertips settled gently on my hips. I took his hands and held them up behind his back, hearing the fabric of his jacket rustle, pressing closer then leaning away from him so he had to come forward to get to me. I trusted that he would keep us upright as I retreated and he reached for my mouth. Our bodies joined at the hips, bowing from the waist.
I pulled his hands up behind my back, he used the leverage to bring me closer. Strong. Hard.
I waited for that moment where the sweetness was no longer enough. Perhaps it wouldn’t arrive, perhaps the sweetness would be enough with him. It came on quickly, though: a combination of greedy curiosity and hunger, that rising heat, that moment when he became a thing to break open and explore.
A hand at the back of his head, the other at his throat, pressure, pushing him, micro-movements to get him where I wanted, wanting to feel the life in him. Joined at the mouth. A fleeting thought that I was pushing too hard dissipated quickly.
My hands on his face, first holding it where I wanted so I could shove my mouth against his mouth more easily, gentle tongues belying the force of hard lips, biting, quick clashes of teeth. Then covering his eyes, his mouth, touching those pieces of him, exploratory, dehumanising, intimate and strange.
“So soft,” I touched his lips, tempted to shove my fingers inside him, down his throat, to touch that wetness. Petting for a second instead.
An awkward forced tilt of his head into the crook of my arm, holding him still so I could take his mouth more easily. Uncomfortable: I always like the awkward things.
Thoughts of slamming him back up against the wall, images of his expression if I was to slap him, strobe-light possibilities flashing in my head.
In the middle there I glimpsed the white of his teeth: He was smiling.
“Are you smiling at me?” I whispered without moving away from his mouth.
“I’m smiling at someone,” he murmured.