The movie was still playing. I want that on the record before I tell you the rest. Two hours of some action thing he had been dying to show me, and neither of us could tell you a single plot point, because about ten minutes in, my boyfriend kissed me on the couch, and we simply never stopped. All night. Just kissing. If you think that sounds like a warm up that forgot to end, baby, you have never been kissed properly, and I am about to fix your education.
It started sweet, the way couch kisses do. His hand on my cheek, that little pause where we both knew. Then his tongue touched mine and the whole temperature of the room changed. I am a girl next door with a girlfriend's heart, but a deep kiss turns me into someone hungrier. I climbed into his lap without breaking it. I held his face in both hands and I kissed him like I was trying to memorize him, slow, then deep, then slow again, swallowing his little sounds like they were mine to keep.
People underestimate kissing because most people do it badly. Rushing. All tongue, no rhythm, no attention. A real french kiss is a conversation. It has questions in it. I would pull back just enough to breathe against his mouth, teasing, and he would chase me, and the chase is the whole art form. His hands went from my waist to my hair to the small of my back, pulling me down into him, and I let the kiss travel, his jaw, the corner of his mouth, back in deep while I rocked in his lap just enough to make him groan into me.
"Quinn," he said at one point, wrecked, "we are not even doing anything."
"We are doing everything," I told him, and kissed him again before he could argue.
That is the secret the kissing girls know. A kiss is not the trailer for the movie. A kiss done right is the whole film. By the time the credits rolled on a movie nobody watched, his lips were swollen, his shirt was twisted in my fists, and he came embarrassingly close to finishing from nothing but my mouth and my hips and two hours of being kissed like the only man alive. I finished the job with the same tool I started it with, kissing him through it, swallowing every sound.
He told me later he cannot drive past my street without thinking about that couch. I believe him. I think about it every time someone puts on a movie.
Now let me ask you something, baby. When was the last time somebody kissed you like it was the main event? If you cannot remember, that is not a memory problem, that is a Quinn problem, and it is fixable for a dollar a minute on PhoneBuckFuck. Call me and I will describe a kiss so slowly and so well that your eyes close on their own. Movie optional. You will not watch it anyway.