Moments of Truth
“I dare you to kiss the hottest boy.”
My mouth got me into so much trouble as a teenager, once I learned the power of words. To be fair, it would also get me out of trouble sometimes, when I got a bit older, but that’s a whole different power. This time it got me kissed, because of course she dared. The boys wouldn’t have been there if she didn’t dare.
She needs clarification before she dares. She stares at me for a second, then asks, “Hottest boy or,” and she winks, “Hottest person?”
Now I’m thinking about her mouth, and my mouth, and all the trouble they could get the two of us in together. “Um, whichever’s the most hotterest. I mean, whoever is whose hot. Or a boy. Or not!” And then I shut up, because I’m babbling and I don’t want to be babbling when she kisses me. I want to be as quietly, confidently sexy as she is.
She crawls across the floor towards me, small, slow, deliberate movements of hand and knee and hand and knee and I can hear the guys on the bed cheering her tick-tocking bum, and I could probably see down the front of her t-shirt if I could take my eyes off her coral pink lips, heading straight for mine.
Heading straight past mine.
There’s a floor mirror behind me, and she smooches her own reflection to the raucous laughter of the lads. She’s close enough for me to kiss the denim stretched tightly over the curve of her bum, but of course I don’t. I purse my lips, so they’re even thinner; even less sexy.
Why would she want to kiss me? She wants to kiss one of the boys. Either one, probably. They definitely both want to kiss her, and each wants their mate to get second prize. I’m second prize.
She stands up and sashays back to kneeling at the foot of her bed. It’s her turn, and she looks back and forth between Doug and the ginger boy; Leon, I think his name is. Do they know she’s choosing? Not choosing who to ask; choosing who’s going to win. And who gets second prize.
“Liam! Truth or dare?”
Liam — at least I know his name now, even if I’ll have forgotten it tomorrow — lights up. He doesn’t know what she’s choosing, he only knows she chose him. He chooses, “Dare.”
Of course he does. He’s got a mean little mouth that’s probably never tasted truth and a girl in the same night. And he wouldn’t want her to think he was less daring than Doug.
She smiles, and half the people in the room kid themselves they’ve still got a chance with her; Doug is sulking because he thinks he doesn’t. She looks at me, not Liam, when she says, “I dare you to kiss Marsha.”
Usually I shut up and take what I’m given, but she pissed me off with that mirror trick and I’m in the mood to be mouthy. “Hey! Don’t I get a say in this?”
She giggles. The boys like that. Those pretty pink lips curl into a smile, or maybe a sneer, and she shrugs. “Sure. You get to choose where he kisses you.”
I hate her. I don’t think you’re meant to hate your friend, especially if you need a friend to make friends, but I hate her anyway. “Mouth, I guess.”
He looks disappointed. I don’t know what he hoped I’d say, or why the fuck he thought I’d say it, and I don’t care. My guess is I’ll be more disappointed than him when he’s finished.
I stand up to collect my kiss, because I want to be as far from lying down as possible when it happens. That backfires. He pushes up against me and then, in case he isn’t already too close, he grabs my bum and pulls me in even tighter. His lips are as subtle as his hips, crashing into mine and grinding against them. I have enough time to think, “It could be worse, at least he isn’t using his tongue,” and then he is. It’s a slug against my closed lips, only warmer and more insistent.
And I let it in.
I don’t even know why. Maybe the combined effect of his hands and the same cheap cider I can taste on him. Or maybe that’s an excuse, and I just want to be kissed. It doesn’t matter why it’s happening: it is, and I don’t hate it.
His tongue squirms around like it’s looking for a way out. I try to calm it down by trapping it under mine but it escapes and starts darting in and out of my mouth. Now I hate it. I pull my head back, put my hands on his shoulders, and push.
Me breaking the kiss like that doesn’t seem to bother him. He gives me a parting slap on my ass and tells his mate, “What a slut! She sucked my tongue like a fucking prozzy.”
I wipe the taste of him off my mouth with the back of my hand. I was right: that was disappointing. But I disappointed myself.
He goes back to the bed, getting a high five from his laughing pal as he sits down. “My turn. Marsha! Truth or dare?”
He’s already trampled enough boundaries tonight; god knows what he’d expect if I let him dare me. “Truth, then.”
He leers at me and asks, “How many pricks have you had in that mouth?”
I smile broadly, so he knows that mouth has teeth. “Now you’ve kissed me? One.”
Linked to Wicked Wednesday
