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Her shoulders are shaking. I’m not sure when she quits laughing and starts crying, or if she even does quit. It’s maybe all the same thing. Laughing and crying together.
I just know that when she looks up, the tears make her eyes shine, and that’s where the stars are.
That’s how it looks to me. Like the stars are in Caroline, and the whole world is just me and her.
Because I’m stoned.
And because I’m in love with her.
“This, too, Caro,” I say, leaning in. “This is completely my fault. ”
When our lips meet, she breathes in, and that’s all that happens. Maybe for a second, maybe forever—it’s hard to tell when you’re stoned. Time gets unpredictable. Sex gets much bigger and much smaller, both, because you can feel everything. Every hair, every breath, every heartbeat, every firing inch of skin. It’s distracting. I get distracted by how Caroline’s mouth feels soft but dry, and it’s like shaking hands, this kiss. Taking her measure. Saying hello. It’s not sexy. It’s … interesting.
“Weird,” she says against my mouth.
“You’re weird. ”
“Look who’s talking. ”
I lick her bottom lip, and she sinks to her elbows.
I follow her down and do it again. “Still weird?”
“You’re licking me,” she murmurs.
“How’s that working for you?”
She closes her eyes. “I think …”
I draw her lip into my mouth and bite it gently. It feels fleshy between my teeth, more substantial than it looks. I want to do this to every part of her. Lick it and taste it, bite it, test it. Consume her, piece by piece.
“Don’t think. Thinking isn’t your friend. ”
“You’re not my friend, either. ”
“Funny. ” I get my hand in her hair, my thumb under her jawline, tilting her head where I want it so I can really kiss her.
I think, fleetingly, Don’t, and then I do.
Our tongues meet. Our teeth bump gently, and she makes this sound with her breath that would be a laugh if she weren’t so busy sinking her fingers into my hair and kissing me back.
If we were friends, it would be disgusting. Spit and tongues, teeth and lips.
But we’re not friends.
It’s fucking amazing.
I kiss her hard. I control her, use her mouth, direct her head.
I kiss her soft. Tongue that sexy gap between her teeth. Pull back, let her take over, show me what she likes, how she wants it.
She does want it. Maybe only tonight, maybe for all the wrong reasons, I don’t know. I’m not thinking about it. I’m kissing Caroline, which is better than thinking.
We fall into this kind of haze, nothing touching but our mouths, hands stroking over hair, necks, shoulders. I’m hard, but it feels like a faraway piece of information, with no urgency to it. This isn’t sex. It’s kissing. The forever kind of kissing, where there’s no urgency and no time. Kissing like waves lapping. Perfect kissing.
Author: Robin York
“Still weird?”
