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Under his burning gaze, I drop the towels I’ve been clutching onto the bed by my side and step closer to him so I can touch him.
With my chest.
My breasts press into his ribs and a sigh of relief goes through me.
Even though the front of my uniform is kind of damp from holding on to the towels, the wetness of his chest still seeps into the fabric, beading my nipples. It’s remnants of his shower and the heat of this town. Heat of us being together.
His pecs move with a long breath and I breathe with him.
My hands find purchase on the hard globes of his shoulders. “You didn’t give me what I wanted last night.”
I’m looking at his tense face; it has become dark with lust and his cheekbones jut out.
“You came. Like a fucking hurricane while your cunt was spasming on my mouth, trying to catch my tongue. You didn’t want that?”
I blush and my lips part with a stuttered breath. I drag my breasts along his body as I go on my tiptoes, my eyes fluttering shut at the friction.
“I wanted you to kiss me,” I say to his lips.
Perfect and thick, bisected in the middle with a cupid’s bow. They are mine. I’m taking them today.
“And I did.”
I glance up into his eyes, swimming with lust. “On my mouth.”
“I don’t kiss on the mouth.”
“Why not?”
“Let me rephrase that: I don’t kiss you on the mouth.”
A week ago, this would’ve offended me. I would’ve retaliated with cutting words and maybe even a prank.
But now, all I can see is that Zach peeks out his tongue and traces his lower lip, as he watches mine. Like he’s imagining kissing me but for some reason, he won’t do it.
So my retaliation’s going to be a little different.
Namely, this:
I push to my tippy-toes, my nipples scraping against his chest and get close to his lips. “Tough luck, Zach. Because right now, I want to kiss you on the mouth.”
And then, I do it.
I kiss him.
I pucker my lips and start with a dry one. One smack dab in the middle of his mouth. The second one on one corner and the third on the other.
Slowly, my hands creep up to his wet hair and I fist the strands as I keep kissing him, giving him little pecks.
Just when I gather enough courage to taste his skin with my tongue, his hands grip the uniform at my waist. He hauls me toward him, clashing our fronts together, and forces my mouth open with his.
He isn’t like me. He isn’t shy. He doesn’t start me off with dry pecks.
Nope. He simply invades my mouth with his tongue like it’s his God-given right. Like my mouth was made for him. For his tongue to invade and abuse and make love to. And my lower lip was made for him to suck on.
But a second later, he fists my braid and wrenches our mouths apart. And all I can do is clutch at his neck, rub up against him to get back to me.
“You fucked up, Blue,” he growls over my mouth.
