NIKKI & JOE, CASUALLY | updates every monday

32: nectar

            Time slows to a crawl and then might stop entirely.

We pause, a few inches apart—close enough for her breath to caress my lips but far enough for our gazes to braid. Buried somewhere in the depths of her eyes are the same worries I have: we said we wouldn't, we're not supposed to, our desires aren't compatible. Are you sure you want this? Are you sure you want this? Are you sure you want me?

Infinities pass. Then Joe tugs, the slightest pull that I feel only in the brush of my shirt against my chest, but it's all I need to slot my mouth with hers again.

The itch under my skin is soothed with the first glide of her lips over mine.

The fog I've inhaled into my brain whips to the periphery, forming a tunnel through which I can focus only on Joe's mouth, Joe's hand tangled in my shirt, Joe's knees pressing into my waist. Has it been so long that I've forgotten what kissing feels like or has it just never felt quite this good before?

What? No, that's the weed. This is the best weed I've ever blazed. And I've smoked a lot of weed.

Just as I manage to clump together some vague thought about how this ain't a good idea, Joe's tongue brushes mine and I fling whatever semblance of self-preservation my high and drunk brain can scrape up off the cliff. Trolley Problem: Oh no! You are under the trolley something something...

A bathtub is far from an ideal snogging environment, it turns out. Joe instinctively wraps her legs around me only to slide to the bottom and with my shirt still in her fist, I stumble on top of her.

Good thing there's no water in it or we might drown: we don't stop kissing even as laughter tangles with our tongues.

Our body heat has no difficulty in shoving the winter air outside. My glasses slide down my nose, barely clinging to the backs of my ears, but my hands have better things to do than fix them. Like massage the swell of her breasts through her sports bra.

Joe yanks at my waistband but there's no way I can give her the friction she demands without breaking my knees. I should break my knees. Hey Google: How to break own knees? Why are we in a fucking bathtub?

It's a tragedy that I have to interrupt the snogging but once I'm sitting and get to pull Joe onto my lap, the relief even through both of our trousers is entirely worth it.

Maybe if I have sex with her this once, I'll get over it. That could happen. In some corner of the multiverse, no doubt, that is what happens.

How likely is it to be this corner?

'What if someone comes in?' Bizarre of her to ask this whilst actively grinding against the ridge of my erection.

'Joe, they're playing Drunk Monopoly. No one's coming in.'

I try to pull the straps of her sports bra down her shoulders but there's too much structure for it to relent the way I expect it to. I blindly search the back for a clasp that loosens the bottom band just enough for Joe to wriggle out of it, though it's not exactly an elegant undressing. Not that I have any interest in elegance.

Stretch marks travel up her breasts. They cross her right nipple, an X to mark the spot. I've never been quicker to follow instructions; my mouth is latched to it before Joe has dropped the bra behind her.

The first moan I unhook from the base of her stomach sends a rush of pleasure through me that's so strong, I'm surprised I don't come right there. Joe rewards me with more as I undo her jeans and slide my hand in to massage her over the cotton of her underwear.