“No.”
“Would youlikeme to kiss you?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Because I would very much like to kiss you too.”
She’s smiling.
Her eyelids are lowered, and she’s smiling, and her dimples have popped out, and I feel?—
Free.
Safe.
Home.
Accepted. Warts and all.
I brush her lips with mine. “Turn off the light, if you don’t mind.”
She fumbles with her phone, and then all is dark again, the night lit only by the stars.
No moon.
No exterior house lights.
No neighbors close enough for their lights to intrude on the evening.
It’s simply Bea and myself, her tongue making a slow inspection of my lower lip while she hooks one hand behind my neck.
Night sounds settle around us—crickets, frogs, a distant dog’s bark—but I’m far more interested in the sounds coming from Bea.
Small gasps as I nip back at her lips.
Little moans when I slide my hand up her leg and beneath her dress.
“Are we really doing this?” she asks against my mouth.
“I shall fire or have arrested anyone who interrupts us this time.”
That soft giggle.
That soft giggle will live on in my dreams for decades to come.
So will the feel of her fingers in my hair.
The way she tugs me to the ground beside her.
The feel of her leg around my hips, pulling me closer and making my cock swell eagerly as she nestles it between her thighs.
My eyes drift shut as she takes charge of this kiss, the slow, methodical glide of her tongue against mine building my anticipation with torturous leisure.
I can still taste the strawberry on her, and my tongue remembers the heady, delicious taste of her near-orgasm too.
By far the best torture I’ve had in ages.
Allowing me the time to learn her curves with my hands. To decipher her body’s cues about where she enjoys being stroked.
