"Bloom"
The Student:
I should run.
The air is soaked in something unspeakable
sweet, wrong, sticky on my skin.
Her gaze is a slow hand sliding beneath my clothes,
even when she's not touching me.
She leans in.
I forget how to breathe.
Forget my name.
"You're curious," she murmurs.
But it's not a question.
It's permission.
Her mouth meets mine
and it's not a kiss.
It's a collision.
A ruin.
Her tongue pushes in like it owns me
like it's been waiting for years to taste
what I'm not supposed to give.
I moan into her.
She drinks it.
My knees buckle, and she catches me
by the waist, by the jaw
everywhere.
Her lips are soft
but her kiss is violent.
And I let her.
I open my mouth wider.
I tangle my tongue with hers.
I kiss her like I'm drowning
and she's the poison I want
in my lungs.
I don't know where my hands are
her hair? her chest?
All I know is
we're not coming back from this.
The Teacher:
She tastes like ripe disaster.
The kind I should regret
but would chase anyway
through every red light in hell.
Her mouth opens too easily
inexperience wrapped in want.
I slip my tongue in slowly,
then deeper
not to tease,
but to own.
She shudders.
Perfect.
Her breath is warm honey.
Her whimper, a cracked vow.
I pin her gently
against the glass
not enough to frighten,
just enough to let her know
I could.
She kisses back like she's starving.
Like I've unlatched something
she's kept hidden beneath textbooks and rules.
She pulls me closer.
Hips to hips.
Chest to chest.
Tongue to tongue.
And I kiss her harder.
She holds my hand.
That's the worst part.
She holds it.
Like this is something beautiful.
She has no idea.
No idea I've been planning
her fall
with velvet gloves
and practiced lips.
And now
she's already
half mine.