The difference between me kissing you and you kissing me— [FM] [Fingering] [Handjob] [First Time Together]

is the distance between earth and heaven. When your lips are seeking mine out, they move as if seeking water in the desert. When you and I kiss each other, it is a holy act. The vacuum between us vanishes.

I feel your tongue press feverishly into my mouth, where mine welcomes it with joy. You trace yours around mine, come up for air, and dive straight back in, letting me take my turn. When my tongue slides past your lips, I can feel the corners of your mouth curl upwards, even as you use your tongue to massage my own.

I separate us this time, desperate for oxygen. But your needs remain constant. I’m still gasping when your mouth settles on the crook of my neck. This kiss is gentle, but you follow it with a deeper kiss to my collarbone. As quickly as you stole it back, your tongue is in the shallow just above my shoulder; it traces up my neck and underneath my chin.

“You’re beautiful,” I say, wanting more than anything to beat you to it for once. I hope you know how much I believe it. You tuck a stray hair behind your ear, knowing as well as I that it will fly back out in a moment’s time. I will you to see what I see. “I love your hair,” I say, pulling the strand back out. “I love your eyes,” I smile, pressing my forehead to yours.

We inhale together. “I love your wonderfully open spirit.”

Exhale together. “I love your smile,” I say, just as it sneaks back into view.

“What else?” You laugh. It’s all-too-often that I’m the one listening to your praises; I’m more than grateful to continue.

“I love your heartbeat,” I stress, pushing my ear to your chest. My fingers touch yours. “I love your steady, strong hands.” Mine trace up your arms. “And your big, strong muscles,” I grunt, you shaking your head at my teasing as my fingertips land on your chest. “I love the whole bit of you,” I say, resting to savor the image of your kind, enchanting eyes soaking in my love for you.

My fingers twist around the hem of your shirt, gently tugging upwards. “Ooph,” I giggle, catching your elbows in the seams. “Just give a little tug,” you say, “You won’t hurt me.” I do, and the top floats up to the ceiling. I start to place it neatly to the side, but you wrench it from my grip and toss it to the wall. “If you’re going to undress me, you’ve got to do it with a little flair,” you taunt.

“You mean undo your belt with my teeth?” I challenge. “No, I can…” you murmur as you fumble with the catch. “If you get it started, I can do it,” I press, lavishing in how it’s me teasing you in this moment. “Just wait until you see my expertise with the *brassiere*,” you counter, finally slipping the pin from its hole, “I can do it *blind.*”

“Prove it,” I offer.

You set your belt on the floor and reach your hands to my waist. It’s still a new feeling to have your hands against flesh and bone. “He’s got the whole world in his hands,” you sing, and I’d wonder where the song came from if I didn’t know you believed it whole-heartedly. As small as I feel in this moment, I feel like the universe to you.

You snake your warm fingers up my back to the clasp of my lingerie. “3.” You make contact with the hooks. “2.” A flick of the wrist. “1.” You try to pull it off from the front, tugging my shoulders away from my body. “The shirt, love!” I cry, tumbling into a laugh. “Shit,” you gasp, letting the bra hang as you whip the tee from my frame.

“There,” I breathe. When my eyes meet yours, it’s as if you’re praying. I reach around my arms, watching you watch me. Gently, I pull one strap from one arm, then the other. Your gaze remains steadfast as I lower my bra to the bedsheets.

In the silence, I search for a hungry flash of the iris or a toothy grin. But it’s just you drinking me in.

Finally, you speak. “You’ve genuinely taken my breath away.”

“You’re a fool.”

Your mouth ravels back into a smirk. “A fool in love….” You raise your hands to cup my cheeks, bringing your nose to mine; “…With. Youuuuuuu.” I nip at you, catching your bottom lip ever so slightly. “Ah!” you cry, “Me first.”

Your hands slide from my cheeks to my neck and land softly on my breasts, covering them nearly as much as the bra that’s now sitting behind you. I can’t help but shiver.

“Alright?” An eyebrow cocked, hands still on me, but tame.

“Just a little cold,” I say. “Ah,” you tut, “Easy fix.” Your hands wrap around to my back, wrenching me in so my breasts press tightly to your chest. Any league between us is closed.

“You think you’re so clever.” “I do.”

Being flush against your chest feels as close to home as being caught just under a warm wave as it crashes down. I drift to your neck, peppering kisses in the constellation you adore most. As I make contact with the underside of your jawbone, you gasp quietly.

“I live for that sound,” I confide, hugging you into my space.

“Does it turn you on?” You chirp.

“Every time,” I exhale.

“Does it make you wet?”

I pull away to look at your face. I’ve trusted you with the images and words I turn to when feeling aroused… but describing the symptoms, as it were, is something I still find difficult.

Your expression tells me you are asking for an answer, with hope but not judgment.

“You tell me,” I venture.

I place my hand over yours and bring them in synchrony to the waist of my leggings. As we push past the band and down, down, down, my heart races. I feel your fingers from a distance, traveling through hair and fabric. Wrist-deep, I push your hand toward my mound, giving up directing but maintaining contact.

Your eyes never leave mine as your fingers wind through hair to the first of my folds. Air rushes into my head. Your digits continue their journey, pressing through to reach my labia. You trace down one side and up the other, rhythmically, softly—I’m bearing the contact just barely, forehead wrinkled with my frustration. Just on time, your ring finger pushes past the minora into my body, which accepts you with a speed that answers your question instantly.

“Darl—“ you choke on the world; if your erection hadn’t been present before, it was nearly screaming now. Your eyes widen as you wrench your hand from my pants to your lips, parting them gently to let your tongue trace gently around the finger covered in me. “Uh…” you whisper, dragging the digit along your tongue before letting it fall to the sheets.

I’m on fire.

“Right,” I exhale. “Can I touch you?”

“If you don’t, I think I might just die.”

My fingers twist around the waistband of your boxers. “Do I need to be gentle?”

“Please don’t,” you beg. I pull the band out, and that piece of you rises to fill the newfound free space. I fixate on you as your hands tug your pants the rest of the way off.

Your eyes rise back just in time to watch me bring both hands gently to your hips. I plant my palms atop your bones, feeling their strength before sliding to your center. Just past a small patch of short hair, my skin hits yours.

You are warm and pulsing under my skin. It is the definition of tender. I snake my hands down you towards myself, grinning as your muscles snap to attention. “I’m enjoying this. Are you?” You choke on your own spit, which makes you blush even more. “Mmhmmph.”

“You haven’t been touched in so long.” I don’t complete the truth, which is that it’s my fault. If I had less, or simply different baggage, I could have caressed you as soon as you needed. My heart breaks a little bit knowing my needs, however important I know them to be, had to overrule yours. “It’s fine—“ you start.

“It’s what I needed, but it cost you,” I acknowledge. The flash in my eyes tells you to accept your victimhood instead of protesting my innocence. I run a fingertip down the one prominent vein on your shaft. “When you made do… did you think of me?”

Even as you shudder, you bite your tongue, unsure what the correct answer is. But we always agreed on the truth.

“Every time,” you nod.

“What did you dream of me doing?” I ask, resting both hands on your thighs, waiting for a directive.

“You don’t have to do anything,” you protest.

“If this was a dream,” I press, “What would I do?”

You sit down on the bed, across from me, erect as ever. Lust fills your gaze as a gentle but firm hand clasps mine. “If you were wet,” you say, eyes drilling into mine, “You’d use your—“ you stop, our hands millimeters from my crotch.

“My?” Your fingers interlock with mine.

“Your—.” You may be pressed for words, but your intent is crystalline, pushing back into my leggings, winding our hands down, and dipping them into my core, “And use that,…” your fingers curl upwards inside of me, and a groan rumbles from my throat. “Mmph,”

You peel our fingers, still tangled and now covered in me, out of my pants and towards you.

“…to just…” You leave my hand alone, unable to complete the thought. But I can.

I massage my waters into your skin, so hot it feels as if it could evaporate. “Christ,” you swear, eyes closing. I catch a drop of your wetness with my thumb, pressing it back into the sponge of your head as my hand runs up and down you.

“So it’s just,” you gasp, “Just you.”

“And you.” Your consideration and compassion, even in the midst of your heat, overwhelm me. One hand still grasping you, I lean in to give you a kiss; your lips fall into mine, heads nearly knocking as I swim in two kinds of warm wetness at once. We catch a breath. You whisper, “I adore you, you know.”

“I do.” My mouth plants on that collarbone, where I try to suck some of your soul into mine.

Source: reddit.com/r/eroticliterature/comments/jr40sk/the_difference_between_me_kissing_you_and_you

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