Brendon freezes slightly, eyes widening. “What are you doing?”
“Pitying you,” I shrug with a smirk, amused by the thought of all the action he thought he’d be getting on this tour, leaning in the rest of the way until my lips find his. It doesn’t gross me out either, a kiss one way or another has never meant anything. Just skin on skin. That’s what I expect, and I have already visualized his snappy comeback and me laughing at him some more after this. But then the joke is gone. Our lips touch, and it’s not funny anymore.
The touch is barely there, but I feel his warmth, the smell of cigarettes in his breath. And maybe, maybe if his lips weren’t slightly parted like they are, I wouldn’t notice the slight moistness of his lower lip. But I notice it, and I recoil in suprise, but only an inch, if even that. It shoots straight through me. My eyes are focused on his cheek as our breaths mix together.
Brendon swallows. My stomach twists.
And that. That was. That-
I move towards him as he moves towards me, his head tilting slightly, our lips hovering, trying to find something, and then it fits - it must fit, because our lips press together again. I feel the kiss in all of my body. His hand curls around my hip, and I fist his hair and pull his head closer, our lips bruising together. Jolts of excitement fly up and down my spine, all from the hungry movements of our mouths, and his lips, god, they are so soft. His stubble scratches my chin, and his hand comes up to caress my neck, all calloused fingertips.
His tongue swipes over my lower lip before going in deeper, and I don’t object. Maybe I should. I don’t. This isn’t pity anymore. No, pity, definitely not.
His hair is short as it swipes beneath my fingers, our bodies pressing together. A shuddery breath from my throat gets lost as our tongues move together, so dirty and willing. Brendon moans, a short, aroused sound, and my crotch is pressed to his, our stomachs together, our chests. His body mirrors mine in a way that fascinates me. I keep kissing him, pulse picking up, my thumb brushing his jaw line as he opens up for me.
What am I doing? What the fucking fuck do I think I’m doing?
His hand moves to the small of my back, to the top of my jeans where his nails dig into my skin. A sudden wave of heat washes over me from the touch.
Then I hear high heels against the ground, a distinctive click-click-click sound from somewhere close by. I pull back from the kiss, or kisses, kissing, the battle of our mouths, a strand of saliva stretching from my lower lip to his before breaking off.
I step back, horrified. Brendon looks as shocked as me.
— The Heart Rate of a Mouse: Volume 1, Chapter 7.