Hazel irises are lost for a moment in the back of her head, only returning to look at Panos and offer him a muffled ‘shut up’. He obliges, pressing full lips into a tight line, like a child scolded. He was trying to be good, less awkward than he typically was.
It always started like this: Red pouncing on him with little to no provocation and Panos allowing her to straddle him, play with his hands as they talked. This was their only means of intimacy well, every bit of physical and emotional intimacy that he’d allow her. He imagines she covets this, understands why it happens a lot more often than not. He’s sorry he couldn’t do better than this. Appreciates that she stays.
The escalation begins with an innocent succession of praise: little kisses pressed to the softest part of his hands, the pads of his fingers. Easy to get lost in it, the kisses and conversation between them easy to feel at home with the pressure of her thighs against his flank, her knees settling comfortably against his upper ribs. Her weight on his lower stomach is hardly overwhelming and most definitely welcoming, like a weighted blanket coaxing uneasiness from him.
And this is how she gets him.
Pulling his hands from plush tiers, she looks them over, observing the same heavily - tattooed and scarred fingers she’s seen tens of dozens of times. Her own fingers play with the rings on both hands, rotating them as they orbit thick fingers.
CLINK - CLANK, they sing mutedly as she twists and turns and pulls his fingers. Funny he doesn’t say anything.
No, he’s too busy. Talking about having to ‘deal with this fucking loser’ or something like that. She’s intrigued, partially, but too enraptured by his fingers, their laxness, and the trust he gives her.
Big mistake.
He hardly notices as his hand returns to her lips, a digit moving past plush tiers into the soft wetness of her mouth. It’s only when the slickness of her tongue, darting from her lips, makes contact with his calloused palm.
“ I mean, yeah, ” his heart pounds against a wide ribcage. “ I don’t know, man. ”
Cheeks are ablaze. Ears surely are red. He isn’t flustered, he’d insist, just shocked.
But he doesn’t stop her.
Even with the thought: ‘They’re filthy, aren’t they?’
They aren’t. His hands hardly were. Not anymore. His profession demands cleanliness they’d be foul, tattooless and ring-less, if she caught him as a teenager. But not now. They are manicured, lacquered, tattooed, and very much clean.
Shit.
Promptly, at the realization of a lax jaw, does he close his mouth, grinding into his molars as he thinks and watches.
Pale hues observe in, what seems to be, agonizing slow - motion as his middle finger is pulled from her lips with a pop, the digit slick with saliva. That alone doesn’t do him in; it’s the gleam of the spit that coats her lips and the way the excess drips from her bottom one.
Restless, he shimmies and melts beneath her, making no attempt to wipe the drool pooled on his bare abdomen.
Red laughs and wrinkles her nose knowingly at him and he rolls his eyes.
“ Come on, dude. ”
Her lips part to retort and he takes the opportunity to slip index and middle fingers into her mouth, her now - intelligible words muffled against them. They explore each side of her mouth, enjoying the smoothness of her cheek and the ridges of her teeth. Prying teeth apart, digits endeavor further into her mouth, happily pressing into the spongy muscle of her tongue as it tirelessly laps at them.
She’s happy to let him explore her mouth; it’s not often she gets this boldness from him. She moans encouragement but he isn’t listening.
No, he isn’t listening… but he really likes the way her lips look around his fingers, their swollen plumpness glistening with saliva.
It kind of reminds him of lip gloss. He likes lip gloss on a girl not like his opinion really mattered on the subject but it was very becoming.
Becoming? No. It was HOT. Sexy or whatever.
Lip gloss is sticky and subtle and glued his lips to theirs. Sometimes it tastes like strawberries or chocolate or cinnamon but with the way he likes to kiss, when he REALLY kisses someone, he can hardly taste anything but them.
Fingers are pulled promptly from her mouth. His hands fold into each other and against his saliva - adorned abs. Red sighs as she reaches for his wrists, her eagerness halting when her lustful haze clears. Shit.
“ Are you okay? I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to ” She did but she just got lost in it.
“ No. Yeah… yeah. ‘m cool. I just, ” face contorts with thought.
“ Can I kiss you? ”
Red blinks thrice. “ For free? ”
“ Yo, shut the fuck up, ” he laughs breathlessly, hands, coated in saliva, reaching to hold her face and guide it down to his.
She resists the guiding of her head and his hands relinquish her face, only to be returned there, held at the wrists by her own fingers. Forehead to forehead, her eyes peer into his own.
“ Yeah. You can kiss me. ”
He isn’t gentle, hardly tactful, as his lips smash into hers. Kisses are eager but not terribly fast; he’s savoring the feeling of her plush tiers, how they taste when he sucks in her bottom lip. They part only so she can breathe ( he could go eons without taking a breath ), a string of their saliva tethering them to each other.
“ Fuck ” The word barely falls on its last consonant before his lips are back on hers, this time his tongue selfishly darting into her mouth.
She didn’t know, did she? She couldn’t have, that THIS, to him, was peak intimacy. Sex had lost its meaning well before now, so much so that the mere thought of it repulsed him. Kissing can be innocent, warm and soft, or absolutely obscene, as it was now, penetrative and invasive and arousing. It is multifaceted, easy, and does not require more of him than he is willing to give. He is not flippant with his kisses, never they are too dear to him. Little gifts of sweetness in which his words can be void of.
Tongue swipes against her teeth, coaxing jaw apart as they moan in-stereo. He laughs into her mouth, tongue fighting against hers to explore further. It laps at her tongue then the roof of her mouth and retracts only so that her tongue may follow, luring it out so he may place a playful, painfully innocent kiss to the slick muscle.
She whines breathy laughter. “ You’re dirty. ”
Panos hesitates and doesn’t laugh back. He notices the blood drain from her face, feels her stiffen on top of him. Her head still in his hands, he holds her there.
“ No. I’m not. ”
She pauses. Red wants to cry out of embarrassment but doesn’t get the chance. A chaste kiss is pressed to her lips.
“ I’m not. ”
“ You aren’t. ” She repeats in a whisper against his lips.
“ We aren’t. ” Panos offers tenderly, the words muted against her mouth.
“ We aren’t. ” The echo is forever lost between them, lost in this moment of fragility and intimacy.
Maybe they’d talk about it later, when the hours have passed and they’re getting ready for bed, when Panos is building that mighty pillow divider between the two of them in their bed. Maybe they won’t ever talk about it. Maybe this would unfortunately never happen again.
One thing Panos knew for certain is that he would not regret it. No he was happy it happened. Hopefully hopefully she was too.
