Dreams of 18

His mouth. Is. On me.

His mouth is on my mouth.

People call this a kiss.

I have to tell these things to myself. I have to run them in a loop inside my head because I can’t believe it.

I can’t believe it’s finally happening.

I can’t believe he’s finally kissing me. And it’s not like the kiss that I gave him on my eighteenth birthday, when he was an unwilling participant. When he was a big mountain that wouldn’t be moved.

He’s big still but he’s moving.

God, is he moving.

In fact, he has this intensity rolling just under his skin, this heat, this passion, that I can feel in his touch.

His touch.

He’s touching me. I could just smile about that till the end of my days. The fact that I thought he didn’t wanna touch me, and now he can’t stop.

His hands are all over my body.

They grab my waist and squeeze, making me arch up against him, making me rub my hard nipples against the lines of his pecs. Making me drag my trembling, shaking stomach against the grooves of his abdomen.

And when I feel the hair on his chest rub against my cleavage, I go crazy. I grab him back. I dig my fingers in his long, untamed hair and push back against him.

That just makes him even more frantic. It makes him roam his hands even more.

They leave my waist but they seem to be reluctant. They fist and bunch in my dress as if he doesn’t wanna let go of my hips yet.

They drag my pretty red dress up and down my legs as he rubs his hands in circles and sweeps. He goes down to my thighs and then comes back up to my waist. He’s making me feel his fingers through the fabric of my dress and it’s creating this hollow inside my stomach.

This hollow that is rapidly filling up with need and lust and everything sweaty and sticky.

So much so that I clench my thighs. I clench my stomach and my pussy.

My wet, wet pussy just because he’s playing with my dress. Just because he doesn’t wanna let go of it like it’s a toy of some sort and he hates to be parted from it.

But then, he does.

He does part with it and goes up to my neck. He grabs the back of it, covers the entire width of it with one of his hands while the other makes a fist out of my hair. Out of my thick and straight hair that never seems to curl even though I’ve tried to a million times before. Now, the strands give so easily beneath his fingers. They twist and curl and get wrapped around his grip like they are his slave.

Like every other part of my body is.

Like my lips.

They open and close and go loose and pliant under his and I wasn’t even paying attention to that. I’ve been so distracted by all these new sensations that I forgot about the kiss itself.

I forgot about his mouth. That’s moving on mine and making me do things for him.

It’s more than moving, actually.

It’s sliding and slipping and almost groping.

He sucks on my lower lip, makes it all slippery and swollen and achy before nipping it with his teeth and making me jerk.

And he likes that.

He likes me jerking for him so he makes me do it again. He tugs on my string like I’m his puppet, a doll, and bites my lip again and I jerk and twist in his arms.

I rub my needy breasts against his bare chest. I rub my nipples and I swear I can feel the coarse hair of his chest on them, even through the fabric.

He lets go of my lip and pants over my mouth. “You like that, huh? You like me biting your lip.”

Oh God, his voice.

I’ve never heard it before. I’ve never heard this rough, low, raspy tone from him before and it makes me twist again, roll my hips against his body.

“Yes,” I whisper with a tingling mouth.

His lips, those beautiful, gorgeous lips that were just wreaking havoc on mine, stretch on one side and he gives me such a sexy smirk that I almost melt away.

“Yeah, my baby likes it.”

Okay, so there’s no almost about it. I am melting away. I have melted.

“You called me y-your baby,” I say uselessly as my arms go limp and leave his hair, almost falling down to the globes of his shoulders.

“And you called me Graham.”

“I’ve wanted to call you that forever.”

He tugs at my lower lip with his thumb. “Yeah, me too.”

My eyes go wide and I blurt out, “For me to call you Graham?”

“Yeah, that as well.”

And then, he goes for my lips again and I realize what he meant.

I realize that he wanted to call me his baby like I wanted to call him Graham. We probably wanted this for ages.