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Description
Chap Stick and Air Wick
Wonder

I always wondered what he was thinking when I kissed him. I knew he was thinking about someone else. Yeah, I knew for a fact he always thought of him instead of me. But I still wondered about it sometimes.

Did he simply imagine the lips grazing his own were that of his beloved Kent? Or was he sensible enough to realize a kiss so passionate could never come from that cold-hearted bastard?

Did he feel the fire I felt when I pressed my own against his soft, rose-petal lips, when I caressed his tongue with my own, when my piercing glaringly cut his flesh?

Did he wish to extinguish that flame? Or help the blaze grow?

He never kissed back. A fractional movement, a hesitant lick. I know he didn’t want to, that the act grit against every nerve in his beautiful body.

I knew this, but I’d still find myself wrapping my arms around his slender figure, capturing his yielding lips in mine.

I wonder if he knew I loved him. That I still love him. That when I kissed him, my every instinct screamed at me to take him and never let him go, never let him look into those sharp, cold eyes ever again. Show him what love was supposed to feel like.

Did he feel my heart pulsing through every one of my ministrations, exploding in my chest in ecstasy, begging for a response? He never granted any response, but did he know it was there? Did he feel it at all? Was he simply oblivious to the energy of my whole being, or did he knowingly ignore it, turn away from it?

Is that why he cried? Is that why every time I pulled away, those bright eyes were spilling over, splendidly tragic? Was it because he felt my love, the love he could—would never return? Or was it because he was reminded of the man who would never return his own burning love?

Was that man the only one he ever thought of?

I never told him. I hope he knows.

Description
Chap Stick and Air Wick
Wonder

I always wondered what he was thinking when I kissed him. I knew he was thinking about someone else. Yeah, I knew for a fact he always thought of him instead of me. But I still wondered about it sometimes.

Did he simply imagine the lips grazing his own were that of his beloved Kent? Or was he sensible enough to realize a kiss so passionate could never come from that cold-hearted bastard?

Did he feel the fire I felt when I pressed my own against his soft, rose-petal lips, when I caressed his tongue with my own, when my piercing glaringly cut his flesh?

Did he wish to extinguish that flame? Or help the blaze grow?

He never kissed back. A fractional movement, a hesitant lick. I know he didn’t want to, that the act grit against every nerve in his beautiful body.

I knew this, but I’d still find myself wrapping my arms around his slender figure, capturing his yielding lips in mine.

I wonder if he knew I loved him. That I still love him. That when I kissed him, my every instinct screamed at me to take him and never let him go, never let him look into those sharp, cold eyes ever again. Show him what love was supposed to feel like.

Did he feel my heart pulsing through every one of my ministrations, exploding in my chest in ecstasy, begging for a response? He never granted any response, but did he know it was there? Did he feel it at all? Was he simply oblivious to the energy of my whole being, or did he knowingly ignore it, turn away from it?

Is that why he cried? Is that why every time I pulled away, those bright eyes were spilling over, splendidly tragic? Was it because he felt my love, the love he could—would never return? Or was it because he was reminded of the man who would never return his own burning love?

Was that man the only one he ever thought of?

I never told him. I hope he knows.