Their mouths were no longer kissing—
they were drinking each other.
Saliva flowed freely now, a hot liquid bond sliding from lip to lip, chin to chin. Neither cared for neatness; the mess itself was the pleasure. When he kissed her lower lip, he let it slip from between his teeth only to catch the glistening thread with his tongue, pulling it back, as though reclaiming what was hers into himself.
She answered with play of her own—opening her mouth wide enough for his tongue to fall inside, then closing down gently, trapping it, sucking, coating it with her warm spit before letting it go again. A gasp escaped them both, not of exhaustion but of delirious surrender.
His lips wandered down her jaw, smearing wet kisses across her chin, her throat, the hollow of her neck. Each place he touched, he left damp, as though his saliva marked her like molten ink, claiming her skin word by word. She tilted her head back, exposing more, offering herself to that wet scripture.
Their breaths tangled—sometimes she breathed him in, sometimes he stole the air from her open mouth, their exhales turning into an exchange, a cycle of hot mist and dripping sweetness. It was no longer just mouths meeting—it was mouths consuming, a feverish hunger where tongues swirled, teeth grazed, and lips clung as though they feared being separated even for a heartbeat.
Saliva dripped down her chin. Instead of wiping it, he leaned in, licked it slowly, and swallowed, eyes burning into hers. The act was shameless, raw, but it sent a shiver down her spine that no tender kiss could ever summon.
Their mouths had become an ocean, and they were drowning willingly—
not fighting the tide, but surrendering deeper with each wave of wetness.