Sarcastic. Smart. Sexy.
"Listen, if you honestly don't want to go out, that's fine. I won't be offended or an asshole because you say 'no' or change your mind. But I'm not going to try to convince you to like me. I'm also not going to waste time pr...
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My first kiss was in eighth grade with a boy who's hands were shaking the whole awkward four seconds.
My second kiss was a year later with a guy from the grade above me who confidently used way too much tongue.
My third kiss was in the back of a movie theater which felt both overwhelming and underwhelming.
The fourth boy I kissed was at a party after the third boy and I had broken up. It tasted like vodka, college, and regret, which coincidentally are all synonyms.
With a bar set so obviously high, I'd never been a huge fan of kissing, until now. The fifth boy puts all the others to shame.
His hands perfectly graze and pull my skin, sending sparks of electricity in their wake. His soft, plump lips move against mine in lovely harmony, leaving me breathless.
My head is spinning. I hear a faint moan and realize a moment later that it's mine. He smiles against my mouth and then pulls away.
Damn.
"I'm not serving anything called 'damn' tonight, but if you want to put in a request for next time, I wouldn't object to that." I vaguely remember saying something similar to him when we first met. Laughing at his turning of the tables, I level my eyes, noticing that I scrunched his black button up during our kiss. I run my hands down the fabric, smoothing out the wrinkles.
He watches me straighten his shirt for a moment before speaking, "I have one other small thing for you." I bite my lip inquisitively and don't miss his eyes flickering down briefly. Before I can tease him for it, his grabs my waist and spins me to face the table once more, standing directly behind me. He points to the other untouched silver platter and makes a gesturing sound. Oh god. The metal dings against the plate as I remove it, revealing a single red rose underneath. "Since it's our first official date and it's been incredible, I figured I should finally get you rose number two."
I hope he wasn't serious about the dozen roses thing.
My pulse quickens as I take in the image along with his words. He notices me just staring at it, so he picks up the rose and puts it in my hand. I smile politely and examine the petals, willing my mind to be in this moment instead of elsewhere.
"You okay?"
"Yeah. Yeah, of course. Why wouldn't I be?"
"You seemed hesitant," he observes. I shake my head in differentiation. "You tore up the first rose I gave you and you're very disinterested in this one," he kids. "Do you have some aversion to flowers I should know about?"
"No, of course not."
"Alright," he complies with a sudden serious expression.
"What?"
"It's the same look you had that night at your house when I tried messing with you about-"
