Everything bursts with life, and that’s saying something because my bare body was already swollen and brimming with about a thousand lives ever since I took my clothes off.
“My name is not Echo,” I whisper and his eyes flare. “It’s Bubblegum. You gave me that name, remember? That first night. Because you said I was too pink. Which I now know is your favorite color. Because it’smyfavorite color, and because that’s why you’re always commenting on my dresses.” Then, “Oh, and I could’ve been a Strawberry. But you hate strawberries, so I’m Bubblegum.”
His breaths are even noisier now. Even gustier.
His chest rising and falling so wildly, chaotically. And even though he’s the one who’s clothed, if I focus, I bet I can see all the way through to his heart underneath. Thundering and pounding and battering inside his rib cage.
“And the next time when we met, I told you that I’d given you a name too.” His flinch is followed by a growl, low but a soft one. “So here I am where you can put your hands on me. What are you going to do about it,Bandit?”
Tick tock, the time passes.
He growls again. He glares at me. He clenches his jaw.
It feels like years.
But I guess it’s only a couple of seconds later that he does something about it.
It’s only a couple of seconds later that he puts his hands on me and I’m done for.
I die. And go to heaven.
It has to be heaven.
Because not only does he put his hands on me — both of them on my face — he also puts his mouth on my mouth.
Which means this time,hemakes the first move.
Although we can argue that I made the first move when I took my clothes off. And then I kept coming at him. But he was the one who did the actual touching and…
Echo. Gosh, who even cares right now?
Right.
I’m an idiot.
Who cares who made the first move as long as someone did. As long as the result is the same: a kiss.
Our second.
Or maybe the continuation of the first. Because it’s not a gentle kiss by any means. Or a slow one.
He’s not trying to ease me into it. He’s not trying to give me time to adjust, no.
This kiss is a full-fledged feast.
A full-fledged binge of mouths and tongues and teeth.
And watermelon and summer.
Because he still tastes like that. He still tastes like my favorite fruit and feels like my favorite season.
I’d laugh with joy, if I could.
I’d thank God, if I could as well, for making him fit me like my favorite dress.
But I can’t because I’m busy right now.
I’m super busy with eating him up, with sticking my tongue down his throat while I suck on his, with smacking my teeth against him. With bowing my spine for him when he comes at me, his hard chest pressing into my soft one, and tilting my face at the angle he makes me, so he can go deeper.