Kiss Kiss  Every kiss was a goodbye, and she refused to let go of a single one, clinging to it

Kiss Kiss 

Every kiss was a goodbye, and she refused to let go of a single one, clinging to it with her teeth, her lips, forcing it to linger and strain, before it snapped away from her. She’d pout and moan, and he’d kiss her again, delaying the inevitable, torturing her anew. 

It felt like each time he started to pull away that might be the last time, that trepidation and his penchant for sadism might leave him declaring that was it for the night, that she’d be left frustrated and alone for the remainder. It left her dangling, hovering between the two possibilities, unsure, confused, desperate. 

Grateful, too. For each little piece that he gave her, drip fed and stretched thin, letting her wallow in the pleasure of it all when he was feeling generous, only to squirm and whine when he wanted to watch her plead. She could relax, but only for so long. 

And then he’d kiss her, that thing that he did just before he was about to do something, just before he was about to end, and the nerves would bounce around her stomach like a ricochet, sure to cause some damage when they stopped. 

She loved him for it. She hated him for it. She was his because of it.