It had been a good first date. A great first date, actually.
At least I thought it was a date.
K had invited me to a lecture on portrayals of femininity in 19th and 20th century art, which had turned into drinks at the dive bar around the other corner, which had turned into a walk downtown. Our noses pinked from the wine and the chill air, we’d wrapped scarves around our necks as we’d exited the bar, our tipsy chatter filling the early-winter night.
But we still hadn’t kissed.
Our shoulders bumped as we passed another empty shop front, and I ran down the list of items I’d gathered as proof of date: The casual way K had draped their arm across the back of my chair. The drinks procured for both of us at the bar. The moment, halfway through the lecture, when our hands had brushed against each other and the world had gone quiet.
“I think we’ve outlasted every other person in this city,” said K, opening their arms to the empty street. “Maybe it’s time we head home too?”
“Of course,” I said, swallowing disappointment and hoping they couldn’t taste its bitterness on my tongue. I chewed the inside of my cheek as we headed toward the station a few blocks away, from which we’d catch trains going opposite directions.
“Wait,” said K, whisper soft as they grabbed my elbow. My heart sped as they pulled me into the alcove of an empty restaurant. Anticipation painfully heightened, my every nerve ending was on alert as I did what they asked—and waited for whatever came next.
“May I kiss you?” asked K.
Everything went still. A bird trilled from somewhere in the city and K’s brown eyes, suddenly so serious, bore steadily into mine as they waited for an answer.
“Yes,” I breathed, simultaneously outside my body and so sunk into it that I could’ve pinpointed the merest whisper of a touch against my skin with perfect accuracy. I licked my lips—chest stinging with stillness and nose full of their cologne—and waited.
K stepped forward, sliding their palm across my jaw, dragging their thumb across my cheek, grasping the back of my head. My focus split between the pressure of their fingers against the base of my skull and their lips, inches away. They were entirely still for a moment, two, as we breathed each other in. The inch of distance between our lips was a physical ache building in my chest until I thought I’d burst out of my skin, and then—
I muffled my gasp against K’s mouth as sparks shot down my arms and legs before fusing in the spot between my thighs. K was barely touching me, but I felt them everywhere. Felt as if the moment might break if I moved. Felt as if I might break if I didn’t.
I grabbed the front of their coat with both hands as they slid their lips and tongue against mine, their hand against my back threatening to drown me. It took all of me not to whimper, to cry, to moan. To beg. I swallowed it all.
But I still wanted more. Our tongues met, stroking each other in time with the frantic measure of our hands, until I was full up on it. I wanted to bite them, swallow them, anything to feel more, but I was scared of scaring them—until K slipped their hand inside my coat and raked their nails down my back. My contained breathing became a low groan, heavy with desire.
With a low growl, K pushed me hard against the building. One hand firmly holding the back of my head to protect me from the rough brick, K’s other hand roamed over my clothes, teasing the hem of my shirt. The barest touch of skin against skin left me breathless with want.
“Can I touch?” asked K, leaving my hem to languish as they slid closer to my breasts.
“Please.” I didn’t care if anyone saw us. It was only me and K alone in an empty city. Spurred on by the need to feel more of them, I grabbed their hand and pulled it under my shirt. Their hand felt like a brand against my skin, our shared gasps filling the air as they traced lines into my stomach before grabbing and kneading my breasts.
I reached down to grab K’s thigh, drawing it between my legs. Breath hot against their lips, our eyes met in half-glazed wonder as I asked, “Is this okay?”
I groaned as K grabbed my hips in answer, pulling me up and forward onto their thigh before letting me fall back to the ground. Panting, I ground down on their leg, our lips meeting again and again, each time returning from newly explored territory. A neck. A cheek. A collarbone. Everything that was exposed, was possible, was taken.
Minutes or hours or days passed, until we broke away from each other. We took stock of swollen lips and lidded eyes and cheeks flushed from more than just the chill, smiles rising to our lips, fingers threaded through fingers, unwilling to give up each other so easily.
“We should check the time,” said K, voice reluctant.
“Probably,” I said as they unlaced one of their hands to slip a phone out of their pocket.
“Oh my god, it’s 1am,” said K.
“No, it’s not.”
“Oh, but it is,” said K, flipping their phone around.
Disbelieving, I squinted at the bright light of K’s phone screen. 1:04am. Wide-eyed with astonishment at how the hours could’ve passed so quickly, I lifted my gaze back to their blue-lit face to suggest we head home. K kissed me before I could get a word out. Their lips melded into mine, long and soft and slow, until we parted. Panting, we stared at each other in wonder before breaking into mirrored grins.
It was definitely a date.
Louise Kane (louisekanewrites.com) is a queer erotica writer who lives by the motto: Write smut. Read smut. Live forever. She lives in Seattle, WA, by way of Chicago, IL, with her feline companion, Marge.