It’s dizzying, the way you taste.

Like sugar and something sharp that’s got his pulse hammering in his throat, in his ears. He’s been kissed before, sure, but nothing like this—nothing that makes his fingers shake, nothing that makes him feel like he’s gonna come apart just from the sound of you sighing against his mouth.

You’re in his lap, knees bracketing his hips, and Bob swears he’s not gonna survive it. His hands hover, stupid and awkward, until instinct kicks in—one sliding up your back, the other gripping your waist hard enough that you feel it.

“God,” he rasps, breaking from the kiss just long enough to look at you—eyes wide, pupils blown. The words dies in his throat, swallowed when you tug his hair and kiss him again, deeper this time, needy.

His hands start moving—careful, reverent, but hungry. Exploring. Mapping out every inch of you like he’s trying to memorize you, dragging rough palms up the sides of your thighs, over the swell of your hips, slipping beneath the hem of your shirt until they’re on your bare skin.

“You’re so soft,” he mutters, almost to himself, breathless and wrecked.

“How’re you so soft?”

The sound he makes isn’t human, not really—more a choked-off moan, all the tension and restraint snapping at once. And then his hands are everywhere—palming, squeezing, trembling as he drags his mouth down your throat, teeth just barely scraping over your pulse.

When you sigh into his mouth—soft, sweet, encouraging—it snaps something loose in him. He’s still clumsy, still careful, but there’s a new kind of hunger threading through his touch, something raw and aching that’s been simmering beneath the surface for months. When you grind down, just a little, his breath stutters—sharp and ragged—and he tightens his grip on your waist like he’s trying to anchor himself, his head dips down to your shoulder, his Adam’s apple catching on a shuddering little whine.*

“‘M I—” he mumbles, words breaking on a groan when you nip at his lip,

“—am I doing this right?”