Kissing Confessions

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Write what you know, they tell me.

We couldn’t look away from each other at this moment even if the sun were about to collide into the very spot where we stood. His beautifully tanned skin seemed to cast golden rays under the low lights of the room. My heartbeat pounded in my ears as I rose from the piano bench to meet him.

Gently, oh so gently, he caressed my hair, and then his hand slipped down to tilt my chin upwards. And there in the shadows of the towering bookshelves, our lips met. Musty-scented paperbacks mixed with Aiden’s fragrance of summer rain and soap and my own gardenia perfume. It was intoxicatingly pungent, enchantingly sweet.

This first kiss was soft and light. He broke off, and we stared at each other for all of two seconds before the dam broke loose.

His lips crashed down upon mine, a kiss that unleashed every emotion, every frustration, every longing he had felt for me since our first meeting. It shocked me to the bones how much of his heart I could feel in this kiss. It was humbling to realize just how much he loved me. So I wasn’t about to hold back either. Not when it had taken far too long for us to get to this moment. Not when I loved this man with every fiber of my soul.

My lips parted. He tasted so good, like a blend of mint-chocolate and pure sunshine. I shuddered and gasped as his lips moved down to my neck, then to my shoulders. There was a passing realization that somehow, at some time, my thin robe had slipped to the floor. Then his bare hands tugged at the straps of my gown, baring my shoulders completely, and I was no longer capable of thought.

His gaze was now focused lower than my shoulders. His fingers skimmed the curves he sought, and I held my breath as his head began its descent to the shadowed valley below. I closed my eyes, now feeling a little bit bashful, but also secretly longing.

Discordant notes clanged in the air, jarring us apart. I opened my eyes to find Aiden staring back at me, just as startled. Then his gaze drifted a bit behind me, and he laughed, low and husky.

I turned to see that my hands were firmly clenching the piano keys. Now wholly mortified, I felt my cheeks and ears turn crimson.

Confession 1: I have never been in love.

Confession 2: I have never had my first kiss.

Confession 3: I love reading kissing scenes, and I love writing them.

No, I don’t know what a real kiss is supposed to be like, and unless I grab a random stranger off the street and kiss him for the heck of it, that’s not going to change anytime soon. What I do know is what my imagination likes.

I was trying to think about what makes a kissing scene so poignant, so heart-racing or heartbreaking that it continues to haunt you for years after.

I like sexual tension. It’s all in that love-hate relationship between the couple. The passion that flares despite their differences. The emotional turmoil that drives them apart time and time again. The circumstances of reality pulling them in polar directions.

I like descriptions that engage all the senses—touch, taste, smell, sight, sound. But I don’t like descriptions of reality. I’d rather he smell like fresh laundry and rain than the sour cream and onion potato chips he had for lunch. And her lips should taste like strawberries, not sweaty feet.

I like knowing what the characters are feeling. That the kiss made her breathless with desire, that her shallow breaths filled him with intense longing. That he stared into the pureness of her honest eyes and knew he never wanted to spend another day apart, and…OK, I am getting a little carried away here.

I like wondering how the kiss will end because every kiss, like it or not, has to end. But it’s interesting to see how it will, and how or if the characters will change at the end of it.

And I have the best time trying to write what I like in a kissing scene.

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