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“What?” I pant.
“Now, you’re fucked, baby.” His scans my face. He looks like he’s memorizing it. He’s committing me to memory.
“Why?”
His eyes, black and threatening and so beautiful, come up to mine. “Do you have any idea how long, how fucking long I’ve wanted to kiss that mouth?”
I shake my head.
“A thousand years.” He studies my parted, blue-painted lips. “Or at least, it feels like it. I’ve wanted to kiss it ever since you first put on your lipstick in eighth grade.”
Oh, I remember that.
I got my highlights too. Tiny strips of navy blue in my dark hair with a sparkly dark blue lipstick.
“I knew the moment I tasted your lips I’d become a fiend for them. And now you’ve fucked up,” he keeps growling, jacking up my heartbeats. “Because you’re mine now, Blue. Mine. And you’ve got no idea what I’m gonna do to you.”
His words are a dose of electricity. A shot of vodka. And maybe even a hit of cocaine. Everything in my body buzzes and vibrates and clenches.
Even my soul.
“I’ve wanted to kiss you too,” I admit. “Maybe just as long as you have.”
Shuddering, he grabs my ass and drags me up his body. I wrap my thighs around his waist as he all but falls on the bed with me in his arms.
Suddenly, I’m inundated with him. His warm, hard body over me, his smell on the sheets even though I just put on fresh ones, and his mouth on mine.
He’s kissing me over and over.
Actually, it’s all one long kiss where he sucks on my mouth as a whole before forcing it open with his tongue. He sweeps it over my teeth, tangles it with my tongue and gorges on my taste.
It’s exactly the way he smelled me that night.
He was eating my smell, and now he’s eating up my mouth. He’s eating up our first kiss.
Something breaks loose in my chest at the thought.
This is our first kiss.
I’ve known him nine years and this is the first time I’ve known his mouth. It’s a tragedy. It’s a travesty. It’s outrageous.
We should’ve been kissing the very first moment we met. We should’ve been kissing for years, for ages, for eons.
We were made for kissing, he and I.
His hands are roaming all over my body, dragging the fabric of my uniform up and up, until my thighs are all bare and open and he can knead the flesh.
My own hands can’t stop touching him, feeling his shoulders, his back, grabbing his ass. The blunt heels of my boots rub against his jeans, slide along the bed as I kiss him back.
I do what he tells me with his mouth to do. I open. I let him in. I let him play with my tongue. I let him taste me.
And in all of that, I’m tasting him. His blueberry pie taste mixed in with something that’s only and irrevocably him. I’m sweeping and sucking and pulling at his mouth. And I’m moaning.
I’m moaning so, so hard. I can feel the vibrations running up and down my limbs. I can feel my moans wetting my channel. I can feel his dick too because it’s hard and it’s rubbing up against my core.
We’re writhing on the bed, humping against each other, making noises in each other’s mouths.
I feel like I could come like this. I could go off like a firework, even better than last night.
