It started fiercely, a collision of suppressed longing and system-fueled hunger. My lips claimed hers, demanding, insistent.
Sarah responded with a startled whimper, her hands flying up to clutch at my shoulders, uncertain whether to push me away or pull me closer. The kiss was deep, searching, bypassing tentative exploration for raw intimacy. I tasted the mint of her toothpaste, the unique flavor that was Sarah.
My tongue swept past her lips, meeting hers, tangling in a dance that was part battle, part surrender.
Her initial uncertainty melted beneath the onslaught, replaced by a burgeoning, desperate need. Her nails dug into my shoulders through my shirt. The kiss stretched, long and thorough, a slow, deep drowning. It wasn't just lips and tongues; it was the shared breath, the frantic press of bodies, the unvoiced confessions pouring into it.
This was the kiss she'd waited for, the one that acknowledged the forbidden current crackling between them for years.
