Tug-at-your-heartstrings new adult first love story.
What starts as a bet to avoid cleanup duties at her minimum wage cashier job, wins Amelie D'Amico more than she's ever hoped for.
When Ben, a cute customer who always checkouts at her register, fi...
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My mouth presses against his of its own accord, with intensity and almost abandonment. I catch Ben's bottom lip between mine and lick it gently, savoring the lingering sweetness of the butter sauce. The teasing taste of him is better than a gulp of air after holding your breath for too long.
There's a moment of hesitation, a pause before Ben joins the game, pushing his lips into mine, mimicking me and grabbing my lower lip between his. As he opens his mouth, I'm the aggressor, picking up speed, my closed-lip kisses grow more urgent and careless. I push every available inch of my body against the surface of his chest, feeling deprived and aching for more contact.
What started as a hug with my arms around his waist, evolves into a heated study of the warm skin of his lower back under his white t-shirt. Now the air envies me and my ability to indulge in the feel of Ben against my fingers. I don't have time to gloat. One of Ben's hands finds the space between the belt in my jeans and my shirt. The icy-hot sensation ripples from my lower back and into my stomach. Ben's other hand grabs my neck and presses our faces closer together as if it were possible for them to become one.
Breaths mixing, palms aimless and exploring—the instincts take over. Two annoying thin layers of cotton separate our bodies, no matter how close together we are. Craving his skin, I pull the bottom of his t-shirt up, but my arms are under his, and there's no way for me to take the irritating piece of clothing off.
Frustrated, I step back, my goal—to get rid of his shirt. As we disconnect for a moment, I look at Ben. His lips—swollen, eyes—dazed, shirt—crumpled, chest heaving harder than after his swim, I know he is my mirror, and that I appear just as eager and just as disheveled.
Ben's finger traces my puffy lips, and I kiss it. His breath hitches and breaks any remaining restraints I used to resist Ben's physical pull. I lightly bite his finger and hold it between my teeth, as I run my tongue along its pad, close my lips around it and suck it in. My fingers on his skin felt amazing, but my tongue tasting it, is so much better. He stares at my mouth, and I hear him swallow. He pops his finger out and his lips are back on mine. I touch his teeth with my tongue, asking to let me in. His teeth part and our tongues touch. Better than my skin to his skin. Better than my tongue to his skin. My tongue to his tongue—the best. Something shifts between us and the analytical circuits shut down, corrupted by the mutual pent-up desire.
He closes the gap I created, grasps my head between both of his hands, and we are flush against each other. His tongue is inside, devouring my mouth, and I respond in kind. The world outside our linked bodies ceases to exist, so intent I am on the feel of our lips colliding, teeth occasionally in the way, heads turning to find a better angle: deeper, harder, longer.
My hands remember what they were craving and find the skin of Ben's sides, pausing at the in and out of his ribs, continuing upwards to the shoulder blades. I've seen his back in the water but feeling it with my oversensitive fingertips ignites my core. My focus jumps around, assaulted by a myriad of signals vying for my attention: lips on lips, his hand on my head, my hands on his body, our chest together—too much and not enough. I want to feel it all.
