19-
The fire starts with a kiss.
It’s innocent, soft, his lips barely brushing the corner of mine—nothing more than a promise.
But my body arches like he’s set off a fuse.
He feels it too. I watch it ripple across his expression in real-time. His mouth parts like he’s the one being kissed. His hands tremble.
“Did you feel that?” I whisper, breathless.
He nods slowly, pupils blown wide, like he’s trying to understand a language we’re suddenly fluent in.
“I didn’t just feel it,” he murmurs, voice wrecked. “I was it.”
I lean forward again, brushing my lips against his jaw this time—just a taste. He groans. Not from his throat, but mine. It comes from me. His pleasure, bleeding through my mouth like warm honey.
Then he kisses my neck.
And my knees buckle.
Not because of the pleasure
