Let’s back up.
How did we get from not kissing to kissing? What was that turning point? Did she lean into me? Did I move closer to her? Details matter. I’ll gladly share them.
Start with six months of sexual tension. Add in two mojitos for her, two beers for me, and a couple vodka tonics. Stir that with some bad news on the business front, and top it with the cherry of Natalie’s hit-me-over-the-head-with-a-
stick comment that left no question as to what she wanted…and here I am.
We don’t lean into each other. There’s no inch-by-slow-sensual-inch pull. It’s not a slow burn.
It’s a fiery crash. We’re two cars speeding on the highway of this night, and we slam into each other, crawl across the hoods, and kiss like crazy.
Nothing is tentative about this. We go from not kissing to kissing in less than sixty nanoseconds. Yeah, I don’t really know what a nanosecond is, either. But it happens in no time.
And now my hand is in her hair, yanking her close as we crush our lips together. We kiss hard and rough, fueled by pent-up desire and more than enough vodka and rum to make this inevitable.
Her teeth scrape me, and I growl, loving her roughness. I suck hard on her bottom lip, and I’m rewarded by nearly the same sound from her. She’s like a tiger, and together we’re animals.
I grip her head tighter, and her hands are all over me—in my hair, then down my chest, then along my arms. We kiss so deeply, it’s like we’re trying to climb each other.
At some point, she breaks off, breathes out hard, then whispers in my ear, “I’ve wanted to do that for so long.”
“Not as long as I have. Now get those lips back on mine,” I tell her, and she complies.
My hands cup her cheeks, but I’m not gentle, and she doesn’t want me that way. She’s not a gentle girl. She’s badass and tough, and she wants what I want. I hold her face tightly in my hands, and she practically crawls into my lap in a rush to get closer, then closer still as she presses her tits against my chest.
I’m seated on a stool at the bar, and we are putting on some kind of show. But I don’t care.
My tongue searches and hunts, wanting to taste every corner of her mouth, savoring the vodka and the tonic and, most of all, the Natalie. She whimpers and moans, and I swallow every sexy sound she makes.
This stool is ours. This bar is ours. The night belongs to this kiss, because it’s not a starter kiss. It contains all the clues necessary to assemble the puzzle of where this night will end.
With unwavering certainty, I know what kind of kiss this is.
As I explore her mouth, and she claims mine with equal urgency, I know that I will be fucking Natalie tonight.