Your love is better than ice cream (for bjennings76
I have been in a strange mood lately; I felt highly sexual, but somehow unable to properly focus my energy in order to actually do any writing. (Just did a lot of the sort of ephemeral stuff that leaves no trace and provides only momentary satisfaction.) I finally decided that I was hung up at a certain spot in my three-part story, so I’m putting it aside for the moment. I will have my musings on bjennings76’s award winning “apt pupil” submission finished tonight. (For more details, look here: http://www.livejournal.com/users/505247/45865.html) But first, something I can actually dash off at the office - his reward. It isn’t all that easy for me to envision a kiss with a stranger, because I tend to be very responsive to the style of whomever I am kissing. So I just imagined one of my favorite types of kiss.
The signals had been there all night. I asked for a taste of your drink when I could have easily ordered my own, and when you handed it to me, I was achingly aware of the way our fingers almost touched. I don’t think you noticed, but I turned the glass and placed my mouth on the spot where I remembered seeing your lips a minute earlier, trying to taste a trace of you. At one point you reached over and rubbed what you claimed was a stray piece of glitter (origin unknown) from the corner of my mouth. I felt your thumb caress and nearly part my lips as your fingers steadied my chin.
We should have said “good night” hours ago. We’ve been talking and walking up and down this street, watching the crowds slowly drain from restaurants, bars and clubs. Pretty soon it will only be us, the surly bartender obsessively wiping down the bar at this little dive we’ve ducked into, and the hopeless. I don’t know why it’s so hard - we’re not 14 anymore. Perhaps it’s because we already care.
I finally propose that we leave and you agree with a wry half-smile. You help me with my jacket, your fingers lightly brushing my neck as you straighten the collar. Your hand slides down the length of my back and I lean into your palm. As we walk through the vestibule, the backs of our hands brush and then our fingers twine. Neither of us so much as glances at the other, our blithe conversation faltering only barely perceptibly.
At my car, you lean against the door, minimizing our height difference and blocking my exit. I’m swinging our hands back and forth, standing perhaps a little too close but not yet close enough for comfort. We’re not speaking very cleverly at the moment; I think we’re each too aware of our own pulse.
You say, “You know, I think I missed a spot, earlier. You’ve definitely got a little…something….glittery…” Your free hand is tracing along the planes of my face as you pull me in with the other, the length of my body now resting against yours. “There,” you finish, whispering, just as your mouth claims mine.
I can feel how much you’re holding back, at first, as your mouth teases along, turning my mouth into what seems like a vast tract of unexplored territory; a veritable Louisiana Purchase of sensation. I can hear my own muffled gasps and whimpers in my ears; sounds far too lascivious for this particular act but impossible to stifle. Your tongue is - warm. Of course it is, but at this moment the warmth seems like such a lovely discovery as you gently survey my mouth; my own tongue lightly winding around yours. One of your hands now slips around to the small of my back, pulling me closer, which is just where I want to be. I can feel your hardness against my hip and I instinctively rock a little, wanting.
My nails are lightly stroking the back of your neck, dipping down inside your collar and then up to ruffle your short, surprisingly soft hair. I’m so utterly aware of the scent of you, the taste of you. I can smell cigarettes from the bar, and the tang of alcohol, but beneath that is a thick, delicious stew that is uniquely you. I drive my hips thoughtlessly against you and groan as your hand slips down to cradle my ass for a moment. I come up for air, gasping, and wonder if we should make such a spectacle on a public street. Then you kiss me again and all I want to know in the world is the slightly chapped edge of your lower lip.
Feeling my eager acceptance, you seem to allow just a little more control to slip away. Your hand is tangled in my hair, softly turning my head side to side. Each kiss has a clear beginning and end; our lips do leave one another’s, if only for a fraction of a second and a fraction of an inch. Even that seems too long and too far. Until, that is, you turn my head to the side, my skull resting in your palm, and begin to kiss and nibble down the delicate column of my neck. Without your mouth to gag me, I am louder. I try to bite my lip but you can easily hear each gasp and sigh of pleasure.
You definitely hear when I murmur, panting, “Mmmm - more? Please?”
The signals had been there all night. I asked for a taste of your drink when I could have easily ordered my own, and when you handed it to me, I was achingly aware of the way our fingers almost touched. I don’t think you noticed, but I turned the glass and placed my mouth on the spot where I remembered seeing your lips a minute earlier, trying to taste a trace of you. At one point you reached over and rubbed what you claimed was a stray piece of glitter (origin unknown) from the corner of my mouth. I felt your thumb caress and nearly part my lips as your fingers steadied my chin.
We should have said “good night” hours ago. We’ve been talking and walking up and down this street, watching the crowds slowly drain from restaurants, bars and clubs. Pretty soon it will only be us, the surly bartender obsessively wiping down the bar at this little dive we’ve ducked into, and the hopeless. I don’t know why it’s so hard - we’re not 14 anymore. Perhaps it’s because we already care.
I finally propose that we leave and you agree with a wry half-smile. You help me with my jacket, your fingers lightly brushing my neck as you straighten the collar. Your hand slides down the length of my back and I lean into your palm. As we walk through the vestibule, the backs of our hands brush and then our fingers twine. Neither of us so much as glances at the other, our blithe conversation faltering only barely perceptibly.
At my car, you lean against the door, minimizing our height difference and blocking my exit. I’m swinging our hands back and forth, standing perhaps a little too close but not yet close enough for comfort. We’re not speaking very cleverly at the moment; I think we’re each too aware of our own pulse.
You say, “You know, I think I missed a spot, earlier. You’ve definitely got a little…something….glittery…” Your free hand is tracing along the planes of my face as you pull me in with the other, the length of my body now resting against yours. “There,” you finish, whispering, just as your mouth claims mine.
I can feel how much you’re holding back, at first, as your mouth teases along, turning my mouth into what seems like a vast tract of unexplored territory; a veritable Louisiana Purchase of sensation. I can hear my own muffled gasps and whimpers in my ears; sounds far too lascivious for this particular act but impossible to stifle. Your tongue is - warm. Of course it is, but at this moment the warmth seems like such a lovely discovery as you gently survey my mouth; my own tongue lightly winding around yours. One of your hands now slips around to the small of my back, pulling me closer, which is just where I want to be. I can feel your hardness against my hip and I instinctively rock a little, wanting.
My nails are lightly stroking the back of your neck, dipping down inside your collar and then up to ruffle your short, surprisingly soft hair. I’m so utterly aware of the scent of you, the taste of you. I can smell cigarettes from the bar, and the tang of alcohol, but beneath that is a thick, delicious stew that is uniquely you. I drive my hips thoughtlessly against you and groan as your hand slips down to cradle my ass for a moment. I come up for air, gasping, and wonder if we should make such a spectacle on a public street. Then you kiss me again and all I want to know in the world is the slightly chapped edge of your lower lip.
Feeling my eager acceptance, you seem to allow just a little more control to slip away. Your hand is tangled in my hair, softly turning my head side to side. Each kiss has a clear beginning and end; our lips do leave one another’s, if only for a fraction of a second and a fraction of an inch. Even that seems too long and too far. Until, that is, you turn my head to the side, my skull resting in your palm, and begin to kiss and nibble down the delicate column of my neck. Without your mouth to gag me, I am louder. I try to bite my lip but you can easily hear each gasp and sigh of pleasure.
You definitely hear when I murmur, panting, “Mmmm - more? Please?”