Mistfits
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- Votes 6
- Parts 2
He expected her to be cold. He wasn't sure why. But when his lips met hers, she was warm, and her mouth pressed gently into his like she didn't know what to do.
So, he moved forward tentatively, and his hand found her cheek, and that wasn't cold either. Her hair was wet, and she didn't taste like any other girl he'd kissed.
He'd kissed smokey girls.
And girls whose lips melted cherry into the pores of his own.
And drunk girls who breathed booze and sweat into his mouth, hot air radiating between them.
But she wasn't smokey; she was crisp. And she didn't taste like cherries, or strawberries, and her lips didn't stick their flavour into him with cheaply made lip balm. The air between them was cold, but she was warm, and her hair was wet, and she tasted like salt.
Like sea salt.
And he'd never liked the ocean before.
But, fuck, he liked it now.
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