Um...this is from my first SPN story...completely out of context, but, yeah...there's kissing and stuff. :) Hope you like it:
As soon as they are through the door, his back is slamming against it as her mouth slams onto his.
And it is smashing, wet-wide lips and dangerous clacking teeth and - oh, God, oh SHIT - her tongue running along the roof of his mouth.
And he's not breathing because she has him, all of him, and she is breathing for both of them, it seems; deep, hot breaths blowing fire against his skin, cooled only by the icy slice of her tongue somewhere in the middle.
Her hands slide over every inch of him, every FRACTION; slick and hot like old oil and he realizes: I'm her fucking IMPALA right now.
And the thought is so ridiculously juvenile and male and WEIRD to him it actually gives him pause until - tongue in my EAR - crowds it away and now her fingers scrape down through the short hairs on the back of his head and pull at his nape.
He remembers to breathe, and inhales air like lightning and ash. It burns and teases his lungs and flies right back out as fingers tug roughly on his ears, forcing his head against the door, mouth forcing skull to wood, flesh to flesh. Jesus. JESUS.
Her hands sneak under his t-shirt, around his hips, fingers snaking in and out between belt and boxer briefs, between briefs and bare skin. She works her way to the little hollow at his back where his spine curves slightly from the easy forward thrust of his hips. Her fingers scratch a sort of Morse code on his skin there, calling to corral every tingling nerve. It is absorbed by his flesh and pounds thunder through his middle.
Now her hands are in his back pockets, clutching and grabbing at his ass through the worn denim, and he swears he can feel her skin through the material. She pulls him forward, popping her hips against his, and he thinks nothing has ever felt so amazing until she’s moaning into his mouth and dragging her hands up his chest to his neck. She jerks his leather jacket from his shoulders and stops it at his elbows.
He can’t keep his hands off her long enough to let the garment pass, so it anchors his arms at his sides while she pinballs her hips from his left hand to his right, and that makes it hotter. For her, too; he can TASTE it. And that raises the impossible temperature even more.
And - No! No! No! - when her lips leave his for a moment, her hands sliding down his torso like mercury, his heart stops in his chest. She drags his t-shirt over his face, snapping the hem and collar down at the back of his neck. The shirt pulls on his arms, forcing back his shoulders, and her mouth pins him again.
Fingers alternate between feather and rake; across traps, over clavicle, contouring pecs, teasing nipples, and - oh… - he is reduced to - oh… - monosyllabic blends; vowel and soft consonant: oh. And then one hand slinks toward his groin and ‘oh’ is gone, as well.
As soon as they are through the door, his back is slamming against it as her mouth slams onto his.
And it is smashing, wet-wide lips and dangerous clacking teeth and - oh, God, oh SHIT - her tongue running along the roof of his mouth.
And he's not breathing because she has him, all of him, and she is breathing for both of them, it seems; deep, hot breaths blowing fire against his skin, cooled only by the icy slice of her tongue somewhere in the middle.
Her hands slide over every inch of him, every FRACTION; slick and hot like old oil and he realizes: I'm her fucking IMPALA right now.
And the thought is so ridiculously juvenile and male and WEIRD to him it actually gives him pause until - tongue in my EAR - crowds it away and now her fingers scrape down through the short hairs on the back of his head and pull at his nape.
He remembers to breathe, and inhales air like lightning and ash. It burns and teases his lungs and flies right back out as fingers tug roughly on his ears, forcing his head against the door, mouth forcing skull to wood, flesh to flesh. Jesus. JESUS.
Her hands sneak under his t-shirt, around his hips, fingers snaking in and out between belt and boxer briefs, between briefs and bare skin. She works her way to the little hollow at his back where his spine curves slightly from the easy forward thrust of his hips. Her fingers scratch a sort of Morse code on his skin there, calling to corral every tingling nerve. It is absorbed by his flesh and pounds thunder through his middle.
Now her hands are in his back pockets, clutching and grabbing at his ass through the worn denim, and he swears he can feel her skin through the material. She pulls him forward, popping her hips against his, and he thinks nothing has ever felt so amazing until she’s moaning into his mouth and dragging her hands up his chest to his neck. She jerks his leather jacket from his shoulders and stops it at his elbows.
He can’t keep his hands off her long enough to let the garment pass, so it anchors his arms at his sides while she pinballs her hips from his left hand to his right, and that makes it hotter. For her, too; he can TASTE it. And that raises the impossible temperature even more.
And - No! No! No! - when her lips leave his for a moment, her hands sliding down his torso like mercury, his heart stops in his chest. She drags his t-shirt over his face, snapping the hem and collar down at the back of his neck. The shirt pulls on his arms, forcing back his shoulders, and her mouth pins him again.
Fingers alternate between feather and rake; across traps, over clavicle, contouring pecs, teasing nipples, and - oh… - he is reduced to - oh… - monosyllabic blends; vowel and soft consonant: oh. And then one hand slinks toward his groin and ‘oh’ is gone, as well.
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Thanks for making today Kissing Day.
*huggles and places an unobtrusive kiss square on your forehead*
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