Kiss, Bite, Lick – Chapter 2 – The Kiss

He called the next day. Not texted. Called. 

The sound of his voice, all low and rumbling through the phone speaker, sent a shiver straight through me, a vibration that settled deep in my gut. 

We talked for an hour, about nothing and everything, and by the time we hung up, my cheeks hurt from smiling, a foreign and slightly painful sensation. 

He took me out that Saturday, not to some trendy, overpriced restaurant, but to a small, Italian place tucked away on a side street, the kind of place with red-checkered tablecloths and candles stuck in old Chianti bottles.

He had a way of looking at me like I was the only person in the room, not just in the restaurant, but in the entire goddamn city. It wasn’t just eye contact; it was a full-body immersion. 

When I talked, he listened. He leaned forward, his elbows on the table, his whole world shrinking down to the space between us. He remembered things I said. Small, insignificant things. The brand of cereal I liked because it was the only one that didn’t get too soggy. The way I complained about the bus always being late on Tuesdays, a detail I’d forgotten I’d even mentioned on the phone.

“You don’t see how beautiful you are, do you?” he asked me over a plate of carbonara that was so good it almost made me want to cry.

I let out a nervous laugh, certain he was joking.

 “I’m… fine.”

He shook his head slowly, his blue eyes serious. 

“No. You’re not fine. You’re stunning. You’re like a classic black-and-white photograph in a world full of shitty Instagram filters. All the other women I know are trying so fucking hard to be loud, to be seen. They’re screaming. You don’t have to scream. People just need to learn how to listen.”

I started looking at myself differently after that. In mirrors. In shop windows as I walked past. I’d catch my reflection and instead of immediately looking away, I’d hold my own gaze, trying to see what he saw. I’d tilt my head, studying the grey eyes, the thin lips, the small frame, and for the first time, I didn’t just see a collection of average parts. I saw a whole. And maybe, just maybe, there was something about it I had simply never noticed before.

Being with him felt like floating a little above the ground, like the world had finally decided to kiss me back. He made me feel like I was a secret he was in on, a rare treasure he’d unearthed. He’d pull me close in the middle of a crowded sidewalk, his arm a firm band around my waist, and the world would just melt away. 

He’d kiss me in the produce section of the grocery store, a quick, possessive press of his lips against mine that made my head spin and the apples seem irrelevant.

Two weeks after that first date, I was at his place. It was a gorgeous apartment, all high ceilings and exposed brick, with a view of the city that made my little box room feel like a closet. 

We were on his couch, a massive leather thing that swallowed us whole, watching some black-and-white movie he insisted I had to see. 

I wasn’t paying attention to the film. All I could feel was the heat radiating from his body, the weight of his arm draped over my shoulders, the way his thumb was tracing slow, deliberate circles on my bare arm.

I turned my head to say something, to ask what was happening in the movie, but the words died in my throat. He was already looking at me, his eyes dark, the blue almost completely swallowed by his pupils. The air between us crackled, thick and heavy with unspoken things.

“Sarah,” he murmured, and my name was a prayer and a warning all at once.

And then he kissed me.

This wasn’t the soft, promising kiss from the bar. This was a goddamn earthquake. His mouth was on mine, hot and demanding, his tongue parting my lips with an urgency that stole the air from my lungs. It wasn’t a question; it was a statement of ownership.

I melted into him, my hands coming up to tangle in his hair, my body arching against his of its own volition. I’d been kissed before, but never like this. Never with this kind of consuming, all-encompassing intensity. It was like he was trying to devour me, to crawl inside my skin and make a home there.

He lifted me as if I weighed nothing, my legs wrapping around his waist as he stood, his mouth never leaving mine. He carried me into his bedroom, the city lights painting stripes across the dark walls. 

He laid me down on his bed, the sheets cool and crisp against my back. He hovered over me, his body a cage of muscle and heat, and just looked at me for a long moment.

“You’re so fucking beautiful,” he breathed, and this time, I didn’t argue. I couldn’t. I believed him.

He started to undress me, his movements slow, deliberate, almost reverent. He unbuttoned my shirt, his knuckles brushing against my skin, sending shivers through me. He slid it off my shoulders, his eyes following the fabric as it pooled on the floor. He reached behind me and unhooked my bra with a flick of his wrist, his gaze hot on my breasts as they were freed. I’d always been self-conscious of them, small and barely there, but the way he looked at them made me feel like they were the most magnificent things he’d ever seen.

He lowered his head, his mouth closing over one nipple, his tongue swirling around the peak until it was a hard, aching point. A soft gasp escaped my lips, my back arching off the bed. He moved to the other one, giving it the same attention, his hands roaming over my stomach, my hips, my thighs, mapping every inch of me like he was committing me to memory.

He peeled off my jeans and my panties, his eyes never leaving mine. I was completely naked, exposed in a way I’d never been with anyone, but I didn’t feel vulnerable. 

I felt… seen. Truly and completely seen.

He stood up and stripped off his own clothes, his body a symphony of hard planes and lean muscle in the dim light. 

His cock was hard, thick and the sight of it sent a fresh wave of arousal coursing through me. He was beautiful. Powerfully, intimidatingly beautiful.

He knelt on the bed between my legs, spreading them wide with his knees. 

He lowered his head, his breath hot against my most sensitive flesh. And then his mouth was on me.

His tongue was a masterpiece of precision and pressure. He licked me slowly, from my entrance to my clit, a long, deliberate stroke that made my entire body tremble. He did it again, and again, each pass of his tongue building the tension inside me, coiling it tighter and tighter. He focused on my clit then, sucking it gently, his tongue flicking against it in a rhythm that had me writhing beneath him, my hands fisting in the sheets.

It was the most intense pleasure I had ever known. My body was a live wire, every nerve ending firing at once. I could feel the orgasm building, a wave cresting inside me, threatening to break. I was so close, hovering right on the edge. My breath came in ragged pants, my hips bucking against his mouth, chasing that feeling.

And then… he stopped.

He just pulled away.

I blinked, my mind hazy with lust and confusion.

“Robert?” I gasped, my voice hoarse.

He crawled up my body, a triumphant smirk on his face. 

He positioned himself between my legs, the head of his cock nudging against my soaking wet entrance. 

“Shhh, baby,” he murmured, kissing me deeply. I could taste myself on his lips. 

“I’ve got you.”

And with one smooth, powerful thrust, he was inside me.

I cried out, a sharp, guttural sound of pleasure and pain. 

He was big, and the stretch was intense, a burning ache that quickly melted into a deep, satisfying fullness. He started to move, his strokes slow and deep at first, then faster, harder, his hips slapping against mine with a rhythm that was both brutal and exquisite.

He was fucking me. Not making love. Fucking. And it was glorious. He was taking me, claiming me, his body pounding into mine, his mouth devouring my neck, my collarbone, my lips. It was raw and primal and everything I hadn’t known I was starving for.

My body was still humming from his mouth, the phantom memory of his tongue still flicking against my clit. I tried to chase that feeling again, tried to grind my hips against him to get the friction I needed, but he was in control. He had my hips pinned to the bed, his thrusts angled perfectly for his pleasure, not mine.

I could feel his control slipping, his movements becoming more erratic, his breathing more ragged. 

“Fuck, Sarah,” he groaned, his face buried in my neck.

“You feel so fucking good.”

He drove into me one last time, a deep, punishing thrust, and then he stilled, his body shuddering as he came, a low, guttural moan escaping his lips. 

I felt the hot flood of his release inside me, and a strange sense of satisfaction washed over me. I had done this. I had made this powerful, beautiful man lose control.

He collapsed on top of me, his weight a welcome anchor, his heart hammering against my chest. We lay there for a long time, our bodies slick with sweat, our breathing slowly returning to normal.

He rolled off me, pulling me into his arms, my head resting on his chest. 

He kissed the top of my head, his hand stroking my hair. 

“God, that was amazing,” he murmured, his voice thick with satisfaction.

I nodded, my throat too tight to speak.

I could still feel the ghost of my orgasm, the ache of an unfulfilled promise. It was like I’d been given a taste of the most delicious meal in the world, only to have the plate snatched away before I could take a real bite.

But as I lay there, wrapped in his arms, listening to the steady beat of his heart, the ache started to fade. It was replaced by a warm, fuzzy feeling of contentment. 

He wanted me. He desired me. He had chosen me. And in that moment, that felt like more than enough. It felt like everything.

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