Oh God, oh God, oh God.
Soft, they're soft—not his lips, because his lips are really chapped and rough from the cold (it's winter after all), but it's his fingers. They're so soft, so fucking soft. They're all over me, my face, my sides, my back, my arms, my chest, my chin, and ohgod, tangled in my hair.
The kiss is desperate, the kiss is so fucking painful, but his fingers are warm, and his fingertips are really soft, and it eases the pain of his hungry mouth. I don't know anything anymore; I never do when Craig Tucker kisses me. Once those lips touch mine, everything is gone, and just white fuzz and useless unspoken words are in my mind.
Like oh god, like thinking of his soft fingers—his amazing, cold lips—his touches, like gentle butterflies dancing on my skin…fuck. What is he doing to me?
I want more, I want more, I want more.
But like always, after the agonizingly long and passionate kiss, he pulls back and wipes his mouth with his glove.
Like always, he turns and walks away as if nothing happened.
Like always, I'm left alone in the snowy streets, wondering.
Like always, I'm left in the cold.