Teeth grazing against skin, fingers biting into flesh. More like, sucking each fingers off, kissing wrists, more kissing, more sucking, more licking. More.
"Who would have thought Alt-J would be perfect for making out?"
"Yeah, it's fucking brilliant. Best idea ever."
The words weren't verbatim, but they were close enough. And maybe that's all they were—just echoes
of a moment that blurred in the dim light from the little space of that gray curtains, lost in the heady swirl of music and sensation.
She could still feel the warmth of his breath against her neck, that delicate space between collarbone and chin where his lips wandered, his tongue traveled wetly over and over again. He whispered that she smelled good, each kiss laced with a kind of unspoken promise, a promise perhaps only she assumed. She had wanted him to leave his mark, to bruise her with more than just his hands. And maybe he did—not in any way that would show up on her skin, but somewhere deeper, somewhere she couldn't reach to rub away. She had placed herself willingly in a space that would be hard to escape. Or maybe, she knew, she didn't want to escape at all. She might never forget. No, she would never forget. She would choose to remember.
As she left, her skin still tingled from the aftershocks of his touch, that electric roughness and tender softness. It was the kind of intimacy that undressed her without peeling away a single layer of clothing, that reached beneath the surface in a way his hands never quite did—yet somehow did. She ached for it again. She craved, she caved, and she would cave again.
"I could hold on to the memory of that day for the rest of my life"
Who leaves a mark so invisible, yet so undeniable?
Who the fuck does that?
YOU ARE READING
Moonshine
RandomDescription for this is a bit overrated, but there's really no end to this beginning.
