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And now is the perfect moment to do it.
But he doesn’t.
He just stays like this, looking at me, hand on my chin, suspended in time.
“What’s the big deal with kissing?” I ask.
“Kissing is more intimate than sex.”
“That can’t be true.”
“For me, it is.”
“Bullshit. I’ve seen you kiss girls since I’ve been here.” That first night he was making out with someone on the beach, and again on the Fourth of July.
He softens. “There’s a difference between a random make out and a kiss with someone you care about.”
“And you care about me?” Because several times throughout the summer, I’d say that’s been quite debatable.
This time, he’s the one to nod.
“Which is why you don’t want to kiss me? Because it’s too vulnerable?”
“I said it was vulnerable. I never said I didn’t want to do it.” Now he’s staring at my lips. “I’ve been wanting to kiss you since the Fourth of July.”
I have to roll my eyes. “Is that why you made out with that woman?”
“Wasn’t worth it. I should’ve kissed you instead. The second Perry asked you out, I knew nobody else could touch you but me.”
Still holding onto my chin with one hand, his other reaches up to drag a thumb across my lower lip, pressing against the tender flesh. My mouth pops open in surprise and he slides it in erratically. “There’s a lot of things I’ve been wanting to do to this mouth since that night, actually.”
I swirl my tongue around his thumb in approval. “Fuck,” he groans, and then all too fast, his thumb is gone and we’re crashing together, our lips claiming, bruising, wanting, agreeing.
There is nothing tender or sweet about this kiss. It’s pure passion. His lips work against mine in a push and pull, as if we’re fighting for dominance. But he’s winning. Of course, he’s winning. Because I want him so badly that I can hardly think. I’m all emotions and nerve endings and this kiss.
I open my mouth to him and he darts his tongue inside, our kiss going from zero to one hundred. He grabs my ass and I jump up, wrapping my legs around him. I’m still wearing nothing under my dress. We’re separated by measly strips of fabric. His hard pushes against my soft, the perfect combination. Maybe he’ll want to do it right here. I can’t imagine saying no, not even being out in the open like this. I just want this. I want to take anything he’ll give me.
I grind against his erection and he hisses his approval. But he’s not going to strip me here, apparently, because he begins walking us up the path. We’re making out and he’s carrying me but that doesn’t seem to get in the way of him taking us back to the house.
Good. I don’t want to stop kissing him.
The house is still boarded up except for the side and front doors, and the side is closest. We’re in the little hallway that connects to the kitchen and dining room. I don’t think we’ll make it much further than this.
My hands are everywhere. Under his shirt. On his backside. In his hair.
But my mouth is still firmly on his, enjoying every single caress of those lips and sweep of that tongue, knowing that this is his way of being vulnerable, that kissing isn’t something he takes lightly, and that he wants this just as much as I do.
But I have power here too.
And when my fingers slip past his abs and down into his shorts, that power is made evident by the hard erection waiting for me. I grab it and stroke, and he answers by breaking our kiss to catch a breath. His face burns with desire, all because of me.
“Take off your shirt,” I demand.
“You like being in control?” He chuckles, stepping back.
He doesn’t take off his shirt.
“Maybe I do.” I haven’t had a lot of control in my life, so I’m not all that surprised that I want to control this.
