I remember the first time we kissed, it was so easy to know he wanted me to kiss him.
I took a leap of faith. I pressed my chapped lips against his and fell into the sweet nectar he gave off, a salty, buttery vanilla scent that hummed from his chest, his breath, his pinky finger caressing mine, it was beautiful.
He pulled me closer, onto his black and blue jacket that he has curled into a pillow on the bursting grass, where his head lay and his arms around me, his legs pulled mine to entwine with his and for a long time I didn't know if it was his lips I was kissing, or his prickly chin.
But then I met his tongue. A tongue of honey and lime and buttery pastry, all of the things that make desert so perfect, he used it in a strange way though, I had never danced with anything quite like it. He wasn't dribly or sloppy, or too fast or too slow, he didn't press his lips extra tight against mine, but wasn't too lose either, he was nervous I could feel that, but he went a head and initiated almost everything for the rest of that afternoon anyway.
He kissed me that afternoon, his way home was there and he grabbed me at the top of my arms, gave me a fast yet passionate kiss, smiled at me, and jogged on board.
It was explosive
I.. it was dreamy