Heat of the moment

His lips are less than six inches from my face. Our voices are slowly lowering to a whisper in his dark warm room.

5 inches.

I remember all of our memories: loving him, wanting him, desiring him for all these years.

4 inches.

I can barely see his eyes in the dark, but I know they are kind. They've always been kind.

3 inches.

I started to imagine his lips on mine as he inched closer and closer to me. I expect them to be soft and warm.

2 inches.

I feel his hands moving up my leg, giving me goosebumps, but they're the good kind.

1 inch.

I begin to turn my head to the side to make the kiss more natural.

Then suddenly, his lips were on mine. They were soft and warm, but the kiss wasn't slow. It was hard and passionate. I felt his tongue rolling around mine, and his hands were moving under my shirt, fumbling with the clasp of my bra.

I helped him remove my shirt, and his hands naturally cupped my breasts when it was removed. I had a quiet orgasm as I felt his touch, so smooth, so desirable, so passionate.

I began to kiss him a little slower, enjoying the taste of his minty breath and the feeling of his wet tongue. I wanted him inside of me, all of him. I wanted to feel every part of him, as if we were a puzzle fitting together perfectly with no glitches whatsoever.

His hands wandered away from my breasts and travelled down my soft, shaved legs. They moved up and down. Up and down. He began fondling with me, and as he made me want him more, I pulled him closer and closer, my hands entwined in his hair.

He cupped my face with his hands and moved my hair out of my face. At one point, I opened one eye and I could see the passion and desire in his face.

We kissed to the left, the right. He kissed my breasts, my neck, my lips. I touched his face, his hair, his body. He touched me everywhere.

I didn't want it to end. I wanted him so badly, but then, for it must be said, I told him, "I have to go."