The Way He Tastes

We drive to his favorite dive – full of barflies, blue collars and tattooed chicks in tank tops. We order a couple of drinks; our jeaned thighs lightly brush against each other then rest, knees touching. He brushes his arm against the back of my hand, gently rests his hand for just a moment on my thigh as he speaks, as if not deliberately. I stroke the inside of his arm and rest my hand in his, fingers entwined. Wine has made me bold – enough of this game.

He kisses me. He doesn’t ask permission; he doesn’t hesitate. He leans towards me, his lips on mine, his tongue inside my mouth. I like the way he tastes.

He’s not afraid to kiss me in this public place. His hand caresses my lower back, my sides. He kisses me with passion. His stubble leaves my chin raw. I’m uncomfortable with his intensity, this lack of modesty among these strangers.

We walk out to my car. I’m up against the parking lot wall, kissing him, being kissed. We move to the side of my car. I feel him, hard and warm, pressed against my pelvis. His chest is firm beneath my hands. Too fast, this is going too fast. What he feels is lust. I tell him I want to know his brain before I learn his body. He doesn’t want to comply.

He wants to see me tomorrow. I’m making him wait until the weekend. A daytime date – an attempt to slow us down. He wants my body. I want something more.

Oh, but I do like the way he tastes.

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