Bekah Gets Acquainted With Her New Surroundings
Who bought it for us? My mom didn't drink wine and there is not the slightest chance you stole a bottle from your parents. Did we have wine that day? I remember the taste on your tongue so it must have been so, mustn't it?
I 'never' hiked without beef jerky or a Slim Jim. Did my mouth taste of those? It's foolish I know, what difference could it make now, but I deeply hope that you remember.
Wine or water, jerky or not, we had finished the sparse picnic lunch we'd packed. The remnants, mostly empty packaging, had been stowed. We lay side-by-side on the blanket and kissed. Our heads rested on our outstretched arms. Our hands rested on each other's waist and we kissed.
You tugged with your teeth on my lip. That was the first time anyone had ever done that. I returned the favor, cautiously, afraid I'd hurt you. You pressed you mouth against mine and your tongue touched mine. I tasted wine and apple, chocolate and cheese and it was a wonder to me.
I rose up and leaned over you. You shifted slightly, twisting your shoulders though you remained on your side. I kissed your eyes and your cheek and the side of your neck that I could reach. I nipped at your ear lobe and kissed behind your ear. To reach your ear I had to lie across your chest. Your breath was hot against my skin. When you moaned I felt it in my chest. Your breasts pressed against my lower ribs.
I sat up and tugged at your arm and you followed. When my fingers touched the bottom of your shirt, you raised your arms up and I lifted your shirt. I kissed you as you sat there with the shirt over your face, your arms trapped. You giggled. I nibbled the side of your neck and your giggle dissolved into a breathy sigh. I laid your shirt aside. You weren't wearing a bra, something you rarely did. Under your shirt, you wore a soft white top with spaghetti straps. I don't know what the material was. It was silky under my fingers and thin. I could see your nipples through the material and the pink circle of your areolas.
I touched the tip of my index finger to your left nipple and you moaned. The material was slippery. It slid easily over your nipples as I caressed them. I kissed your right nipple. I blew my breath through the material, wondering if my breath would feel as hot on your skin as yours had on mine. You shivered.
When my fingers grasped the bottom of the camisole, you raised your arms again. Your breasts, another wonder. It was spring. You had no tan lines, your breasts were milky white except for the pink areolas and brown nipples that crinkled and shrank at the touch of the breeze. Your camisole joined your top and my hands covered your breasts. That's all my hands did, cover your breast, your nipples were hard stones pressing into each palm as we kissed.
At some point my hands began to move and squeeze the soft flesh beneath them. Your one hand was behind by head, pulling my mouth close to yours. Your other hand was on my shoulder where it burned. Your fingertips burned. In my mind, I could feel every swirl, every loop of your fingerprints. You etched them into my skin.
When I urged you down onto the blanket, you rolled onto your back. I devoured you with my eyes. I saw the shine in your own, the wetness of your lips, the soft pulse at the base of your neck, your taut tummy with its belly button begging for my tongue. And most of all, your beautiful breasts, the way they rested on your chest, the shadow they cast on your ribs, the small faint shadow of your nipple. I wanted to build a sundial at that moment, a sundial with your areola as the plate and your nipple its gnomon. That thought was lost as I bent to take your nipple between my lips.
I kissed it, at first, much as I had your lips.