The place where a man’s neck collides with his collar bone is where I stare when I lick my lips. They need to feel your pulse lift under them. There are Mustangs running wild in that pulse and I want to feel them between my teeth. The way your belt is slung careless around your waist makes me think of the leather tie wrapped around the underbelly of a rodeo horse. Oh Cowboy, I think I’d win that eight second ride…
I just want to be kissed. I want to be held at the waist and split open by someone’s mouth until I am no longer whole. I want to forget where I am, why I am there, how I got there in the first place. I want to be pressed up against walls, pinned against floors, and reclined against counters.
A good kiss is a performance—an event.
Nothing matches the way your blood pulses under your skin when someone leans in to kiss you—reaches for your heart with their mouth—and holds on to your body like they are a blind man and you are a slippery rock face. Nothing compares to someone who pays attention to how you kiss them and knows that just like love—we all kiss the way we want to be kissed.
A good kiss has its own area code.
Its own continent.
Its own fucking galaxy.