His lips landed on my mouth, soft and yet commanding. His tongue parted my lips, sharing his mouth’s vital moisture. He exhaled into me, heating my cold airways with his warm breath, imbuing my world with his scent, crisp rainfall wafting with fresh ozone, fragrant earth with a hint of leather, a punch of wholesome maleness.
His breath startled my lungs into action. The contact transformed into something deeper and more intense. My starved body wanted more of him, air, scent, tongue, lips. Along the way, my lungs relaxed and my throat loosened beneath his fingers’ caress.
Oh. My. God. He was kissing me now, and his kiss was everything that a kiss ought to be—question, answer, light-infused canvas, an entire painting dedicated to blues and yellows, a portrait of my body in heat.
His entire body was committed to kissing me. I responded to him as if my next breath depended on his touch. My nipples sharpened and my sex ached, clutching at the emptiness inside of me. My heart pounded a million beats per second. When he finally broke off the kiss, he seemed breathless too, and I wondered if together we’d burned up all the oxygen in the room.