“The sunlight claps the earth, and the moonbeams kiss the sea: what are all these kissings worth, if thou kiss not me?”
― Percy Bysshe Shelley

She squeezes in close against me, cheek to my cheek, arm extended, our grins mirrored back to us in the phone’s camera. She laughs and says “Say penis!” instead of “cheese” and we cackle, immortalized in pixels; dazzling, young and unafraid. We turn to each other, still laughing and she catches my mouth with hers in a soft kiss, lips like cream, sweet breath like fresh hay, and I’m drowning in her. Angelic, her hair falls around our faces as she climbs into my lap, both of us gasping as we kiss, clumsy and manic, licking the giggles out of each others’ mouths. The skin of her bare back is so warm under her sweater and I feel the dampness of my palms stick to her flesh so I grab her gently by handfuls and pull her nearer, groaning, blissful under the writhing weight of her body.

“More,” is all she mumbles as she nips my chin and tugs at my bottom lip. I’m dying to get my hand into the heat between her thighs and she lets me, sitting up and back, her pyjamas slipping down her hips so she can rock forward on my hand as we kiss. Succulent and heady, her kisses are deep and quiet as she works her pelvis against my hand. She’s focusing to come and it’s over as fast as it begins. I only know she’s tipping past the edge because of how she sucks the air from my mouth and holds her breath, stiff, shaking in my arms, filling my palm with her wetness.
She sighs and wriggles in close, half in my lap, half beside me, and produces her phone. She shows me our picture again and grins. “No one would ever guess that right after this picture you kissed me until I came.” I snicker and trace the paisley pattern of her pyjamas with my finger. “I don’t think it was the kiss …” She stops me with a look. “It’s always the way you kiss me that does it,” she says, “your kiss is a love letter my body can’t stop reading.” I feel my face flush and I look away, undone. When I look back she’s nearly asleep, nestled right against me, spent and silent except for her breathing, in out, in out, past her pretty lips.

Violet Fawkes

Violet Fawkes (she/her) is a freelance writer and sex blogger focusing on pleasure education, erotic fiction, and the intersection of identity, kink and mental health.