It was her lips that did it. They were what pushed him over the edge, made him realise that maybe th

It was her lips that did it. They were what pushed him over the edge, made him realise that maybe this wasn’t just the kind of experience you slipped into, that he would have to make an effort. It wasn’t that they were particularly beautiful lips (they were), it was the way they would part, just at the right moment, like they were plucking it out of the air with all of the grace of the mechanical claw at a fairground.

The grace wasn’t in the movement, you have to understand. It was in defying the impossible, keeping that grip when you are constantly expecting it to fail. He watched those lips with the expectation of failure, that they would suddenly do the wrong thing, that he would suddenly want to stop kissing them, biting them, enveloping them with his own, grazing his teeth against hers. She’d smile, and he’d want to do the most depraved things to her. For all the best kinds of reasons.

Her head on his lap, and him staring at her mouth. His hand between her legs, and him gently stroking her. Gently, for the moment, gently, until his fingers started moving a little faster, gently, until her lips parted, and that gasp pushed out into the air like a question mark, like the exclamation that the moment was waiting for. Like the signal that ‘gently’ wasn’t quite good enough any more. And then his finger would slip inside her, and he’d feel her wrap around him tightly. 

Another set of lips, and another way for him to fall all over again.