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And my stomach.
And the half-eaten dinner I’m still trying to digest.
“I want to do it again,” he says.
I stare back at him. “Do what?”
“Kiss you.” His fingers in my hand twitch, then squeeze. “I … I want to kiss you again, Bobby. Just to see.”
“Just to see …?”
My words aren’t conscious choices. I’m just repeating what I hear from those beautiful lips of his I’ve been staring at for years, lips that never belonged to me, lips that only touched girls who were lucky enough to be Jimmy’s type.
Until recently.
“Can we just try this?” he softly asks, nearly pleading. “Can I kiss you and we just … see where this goes? Can we, Bobby?”
I swallow once, lick my lips, then lamely say, “O-Okay.”
Jimmy rises from his chair.
I rise from mine at the same time, a perfect mirror of him.
Our sweaty hands still grip one another’s as our bodies slowly draw close.
There is an uncertainty and an excitement swirling in his eyes. The Jimmy Strong cockiness is nowhere to be found.
This boy in front of me is walking into all-new territory.
Before he appears to be ready, he drops his lips to mine and takes my mouth with his own.
I shut my eyes and give in to the warmth of his kiss.
It is the fullest kiss my lips have ever felt.
I tilt my head, letting him press deeper into my face. Waves of warm breath crash over my cheek as our lips dance. It’s no telling which of us is leading. I feel commanded one minute by his mouth, and then I’m in charge the next.
The kiss ends at once, and he pulls away.
I open my eyes on his face, flushed and rosy, the same way he gets when he works out, or dances too hard, or jogs with me.
I feel a private satisfaction in how much I’ve worked him up.
“Bobby …”
That one uttering of my name splits me open, the sensitive, almost broken tone in his voice. “Yeah?”
“Can we …?” He seems to nod toward his bed.
That nod could mean a million things. But I take it at its most innocent interpretation. “Yeah, let’s get you off your feet.”
Jimmy sits down on the edge.
I sit down right next to him.
Then our mouths are on one another’s the very next second.
Jimmy falls back on the bed, taking me with him and pulling me atop him, straddling him. He works his lips against mine in a fevered kiss twice the strength of the last one.
I’ve probably dreamed of his moment ten thousand times.
This is better than any of those ten thousand times.
Except I never quite pictured myself on top of him like this. Somehow, even while straddling him, Jimmy seems to be taking charge, his hands running up and down my back as my palms press into the mattress on either side of his head, holding up my body in half a push-up as I keep my lips on his. Our heads tilt one way and the other, each of our kisses growing more frustrated and desperate as the last one, like we can never quite manage the right position to completely satisfy ourselves.
We just can’t seem to get enough. Each kiss is a restless and hungry attempt at perfection.
Has he wanted this as badly as I have?
Where were the signs?
Did I miss each and every one of them?
At once, he lets go of my back and grips my face, cradling it in his big hands as our lips separate. He stares into my eyes, as if he’s searching for me.
I’m right here.
His fingers adjust to a more caring hold of my face, like a bit of a loving caress, and then he runs a hand through my hair at the side of my head, right by my ear.
I’m always surprised anew at how big Jimmy’s hands are. It’s a wonder he didn’t continue pursuing football like his brother did.
Just a side thought, a totally unimportant thought.
And then his hand clasps the back of my head and draws me in for another kiss.
And once again, I’m his prisoner.
“Jimmy …” I breathe against his lips as we kiss.
“I don’t know what I’m doin’,” he breathes against mine, the tiny wisps of words coming out between the smacking of our lips.
“You’re kissin’ me,” I breathe back.
“Mmm, I know that, smartass.”
I love how croaky and gruff his words come out when he calls me a smartass, almost like a moan. “You kiss so good.”
“You do, too,” he moans back against my lips.
We make out so much, I lose track of time. I’m not even aware that time exists. I don’t count seconds or minutes. I barely even acknowledge when we shift slightly and I end up on the bed next to him, our bodies turned on their sides as we continue to kiss uninhibitedly. Maybe we’ve been making out for ten solid minutes. I wouldn’t know. Our hands caress one another’s backs, and we both keep grinding our hips at one another’s, like we can’t manage to get them close enough.
