The Taste of Freedom
I can't stop thinking about that kiss.
True. It had been terrifying, a complete and total shock to your system. Most terrifying had been the potential that kiss held. It was a dangerous means to an end. You needed her to trust you. A kiss, then another and another, late night talks and whispered confidences could have gotten you what you needed. That kiss opened the door to a perfect plan that appalled you. Defying scientific ethics with absolute abandon. Terrifying.
That was all before, though. Before your tongue betrayed you.
I can't stop thinking about that kiss.
You had knocked on her door, well-reasoned plan at the ready. You'd play it cool, get close to this girl, find out what she knows.
Well-reasoned plans are difficult to execute though, when your nerves are thrumming and every fiber of you is screaming do not play with this girl's heart. So you stuttered a bit, laughed a little falsely, thanked your lucky stars that she was nervous too, too nervous to notice how your voice shook.
And when you saw the opportunity, when she paused in her ramblings for a moment, you slipped the words in edgewise.
I can't stop thinking about that kiss.
You babbled a bit, flubbing your rehearsed explanation of the scientific backing of bisexuality. You took a deep breath. You watched her eyes skid across your lips and let yours do the same. All according to the plan.
All according to the plan, that is, until your tongue went rogue.
Your lips brushed hers, an exemplary performance of Delphine's Tentative First Kiss With A Girl. But while you were busy mentally preparing for the flustered apology and pleased-but-uncertain laugh that were meant to follow, your tongue forgot its role in the charade.
It slipped through your lying lips and slid across her skin. Traced the border of her bottom lip and tasted salty freedom. And there was no turning back.
They say the show must go on, but tongues don't abide by age-old adages. Tongues don't care about your plan, about your supposed sexuality, about her lips instead of his. Tongues will do what they want, and yours wanted her.
The ruin of your plan snowballed from there. The tongue sweet talked your fingers into joining the fun. Before you could rein them back in, they were smoothing across skin and finding their way under sweaters, fumbling with bra straps and making you blush. Your sensible scientist head was shouting for you to run, before the entire plan was undone. Before you were undone. But your body was too busy to listen, far, far too busy matching the swing and grind of her hips.
It was the catch in her breath that closed the door once and for all on your foolish plan. Your head's pedantic protests were drowned out completely by the thud of your heart and reply of her tongue.
I can't stop thinking about that kiss.
