First Things First [FM] [this is the pre-smut] [gotta enjoy the build] [gratuitous Christmas presents] [first kiss] [wow it’s requited???]

**I’m bitten by the salty air and both our hair whipping as we stand on the river that’s seen centuries fire up and fade.**

You’ve graciously allowed me to bargain up from a porchside chat to a Thames-side stroll. It’s so rare I see you enjoy being present; but in the frosty sunshine smiling comes easy to you.

Then again, smiling has been coming easy to me, but I suspect that has more to do with the fact my hand is a foot from yours, and perhaps the glance I caught you sneaking at the place where the hem of my skirt meets sheer black lace; in any cause or case, smiles abound.

I turn onto Blackfriars, my favourite of all, and you follow me to an outcropping plastered with graffiti and Samaritan plaques and I think about how this has always been my Last Resort Bridge, and I say so, and you laugh before nudging a bit closer to me, ostensibly to look back up the river. But.

I’ve closed my eyes to focus on the breeze licking across my face when I hear you ask, “So, what do you want for Christmas, kitten?”

When the sunlight comes streaming back in, it’s framing your face like a halo. Maybe this is what makes me say,

“A kiss.”

You choke on the sad black coffee you’ve been nursing. “Beg pardon?”

“I want a kiss.” I manage to keep my eyes level on you even as my stomach threatens to very rapidly replace my outsides with my insides. “It’s cost-efficient, relatively easy to acquire,” I prattle on, “no shipping.”

You look at me somewhat incredulously before shaking your head and setting your paper cup on the railing. I’m still half-expecting a speech about maturity and boundaries when you stretch back up, extend a hand to catch the nape of my neck, and bring your mouth to mine.

It’s softer than I would have thought for the abruptness of it, betraying some premeditation on your part as well. Your lips linger locked in mine for long enough that I can breathe in the smell of you—smog and caffeine and something slightly sweet.

I’m still enjoying myself when you fall apart from me, fingers still brushing the roots of my hair. “Okay?”

I can’t look you in the eye, but I manage, “I should have asked for something else.”

You actually cackle in my face, covering something a bit broken. “That bad?”

The need to set you straight brings me back to this place, inches from you. “I’m gonna need more now.” That gets me a crack of a grin. “I’m gonna be so obnoxious about it.”

“Yeah, obviously a mistake,” you nod, and then you’re pulling me back into you more insistently, tongue tracing the place where one lip meets the other and caressing as I reach up to grip you by your coat and guide you the little stone bench so many strangers have snogged on through the aeons.

Your tongue is now softly greeting mine, and something primal in me makes me crawl to your lap and twist my wrists up around your neck. You answer by wrapping your arms around my middle and hugging me in with an enthusiasm that makes my heart go wobbly.

I gasp the river air in and tuck my neck over your shoulder to watch the water move endlessly. “It’s going where it was always going to go,” I exhale. Your hand flattens against my back, bleeding warmth as your chest rises and falls.

You nuzzle into my open neck and press half a kiss to the skin there. “How did you know?”

“I didn’t,” I say. “Took a risk.” I can feel you smiling into my chin. “You’re wild.”

“And lovely.” Your nose traces the line of my chin up to my bottom lip, and I can’t let the chance to take it gently between my teeth escape. “And *something else*,” you correct me, sealing the notion with a peck to my lips.

I bring my hands to frame your face, pressing into the scraggly hair that dusts your cheeks. “Happy Christmas.”

You breathe back, squish-faced as you are: “Happy Christmas.”

“Sorry my present was so lame.”

You grin. “You did alright, in the end, I think.”

“What if,” I lean back, “*I* pay for ice skating?”

I expect a grunt of disapproval or a full-on groan, but you bite your lip, considering. “No pictures.”

“No pictures,” I nod solemly. There’s a flash in your eye as you bundle me up and set me back on my feet. “If I don’t go, you’ll just go with someone else,” you smirk, dumping your now-cold coffee in a bin. “Besides,” you add, looking back to me, “I’m feeling unusually festive.”

“Can’t imagine why,” I smile, gleefully twining my fingers with yours.

“Life’s full of miracles,” you say, giving my palm just the lightest squeeze before waltzing off towards Tower Bridge and a frozen moat and something completely old and new.

Source: reddit.com/r/eroticliterature/comments/jxpkp7/first_things_first_fm_this_is_the_presmut_gotta