Borje's tongue flicks over my lips, the merest suggestion of what might be to come. There's no sense of intrusion or invasion. I shudder as his teeth catch my lower lip. He plucks gently at the flesh, then releases it as the hand on my cheek slips around to cup behind my neck. Tightening his hold on me, fingers twining into my hair, he opens his mouth over mine.
I thought I felt his passion before.
I was wrong.
The hand behind me shifts, slipping over my waist and around, gliding upward to settle over my ribs, under my breast but not touching it.
My heart races and my breathing accelerates, as though he were a musician, playing me, some composer penning the score: subito accelerando.
The touch, the caress, the moment, is passionate, utterly sensual, utterly sexual, and yet at no point does Borje touch any part of me that a teenage girl, with Love's first caress, would think amiss.
Perhaps I moan. Perhaps it is only my breath escaping.