There’s something very intimate in the way he kisses me, very wet and slippery. Very deliberate. Slow, like melting lava destroying its way down the hill that’s my self-restrain. My palms tingle where they rest on his shoulders and so do my lips, my cheeks, my nose, my neck, everywhere his skin is on mine. I can’t hear anything, anything but the muffled sound of our breaths, mingling. And the blood, I reckon my heartbeat, rushing through my ears, thumping like pain, but faster. So much faster.
He slides his mouth away from mine and along my cheek, warm and wet, like longing. He fits his lips over my jaw and under it, on that white white spot that’s softer than the rest, below my ear. “Arthur” he whispers. I shiver. He says it again and this time I gasp, knotting my fingers in his hair.
His fingers slip away from my neck and waist. And as if they have trailed this path a hundred times-though they haven’t-they come to rest on my chest, buttons sl