Making out with Jean is always the best experience in the world. The give and take, the push and pull of my lips on his and vice versa. I like to dream about it in the middle of class when I really should be paying attention to the teacher. Or at home, long after I’m supposed to be asleep. It’s amazing how much of my thoughts include Jean nowadays.
We’re on his bed and his parents won’t be home for at least another few hours. I have him in my lap, our arms around each other, hands in each other’s hair, everywhere and anywhere. I lick my way into his mouth, savor the taste and feel of it. Run my tongue over every curve, tickle every crevice. I like to take my time, devour him and stake a claim. Then I let him do the same to me. He likes to move at a faster pace. It seems he can’t get enough me. He likes to push at me, his hands cup my jaw to pull me in while using that leverage to surge forward himself. He twists his tongue around mine like a sword fight. Boils my blood and tries my patience until I'm pushing and pulling at him as well.
We paint the air around us with the slick sound of lips on lips and sharp inhales. The rustle of fabric and soft groans and grunts. His mouth feels wonderful against mine, somehow soft but firm at the same time. His shirt is soft under my hands as they trace their way down his spine. His skin is even softer, warmer under my touch as I slide my hands under his shirt to grasp at his hips. Jean has sharp hip bones and my fingers curl perfectly around them. Sometimes I think Jean was made for me and I for him. But perhaps that’s just me being sappy.
It’s hard not to feel that way though, not when Jean’s head tucks perfectly under my chin when we cuddle. Not when our hands fit together just right. Not when Jean, abrasive, calculating, suspicious, secretly kind Jean, whispers “I love you” so sweetly. Not when he smiles like he’s won the world when I repeat those words back to him.
I’m brought back to the present by a hand tugging on my hair. I realize that we’re moving at a slower pace, lips sliding together languidly. I open my eyes to see his already open, studying me. Sure, it’s a little awkward to see someone from so close, but Jean’s eyes are a really pretty amber so I don’t mind all that much. I slow our kissing to a stop with a smile and peck Jean one more time before drawing away.
He’s pouting and that stretches my smile into a grin. I bring a hand to his face, thumb rubbing at his flushed cheek. He’s so pretty. His brow furrows and he opens his mouth to speak. “Stop that.”
I chuckle and play innocent. “Stop what?” I reply and he just scowls further, turning his head to nip at my thumb and mumbling something into my palm. “What was that?” I ask.
His cheeks flush darker as he turns towards me again. “I can practically feel you thinking sappy. Stop.” He grumbles and I’m sure it’s not his intention to look that cute but he manages anyway. I throw my head back in a laugh before moving forward and pressing our foreheads together.
“I can’t help it.” I tell him while nuzzling my nose against his and letting my eyes flutter shut. “I guess you just have that effect on me.”
Apparently that’s all Jean can handle because he promptly pushes me over and buries his head into the pillows with a sound like a dying cat. I can’t help but laugh again at that as he grumbles into the pillow. I catch bits and phrases like “ stupid boyfriends” and “being too cute to handle” and chuckle a few more times at his expense before crawling over to him.
I brace my weight on my elbows as I settle on top of him, chest to back, trying to coax him out of hiding with nibbles and kisses to his neck and shoulders. “Jean.” I whisper in his ear and he responds with a whine before turning over. He’s still flushed and his breathing is a little fast. I smile at him and he averts his eyes.
“Stupid.” He mumbles, breath hitching as I move down to love on his neck a little more. I hum against his pulse as he tilts his head back to give me more room. After I’m satisfied with the amount of marks I've left I move up so I can face him properly.
“You don’t like it when I think or say nice things about you?” I ask, tilting my head to the side.
He replies with a stubborn huff. “Of course not! It’s embarrassing!” He insists.
I simply smile at him and switch my weight over to one elbow, using the other hand to grab at his left thigh. “Well then,” I tug him closer. “I guess you’ll just have to distract me.”