Sometimes it is almost enough to kiss him, to feel the smooth contours of his lips part and the heat of his tongue, slick and rough in swift contrary slides. The half-innocence of the kiss is the same mirrored charm: the brush of lips that might be nothing more until they part like velvet curtains to allow a dance of tongues that echoes lust with every sinuous movement. The more he moans, the more he opens his mouth -- until he breaks it to gasp for breath and tug his clothes off, shivering and saying, "Jesus God, Chris, you'll kill me."
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