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Every time they kiss it’s exciting.
It’s not just Sally, and Sally’s mouth, and the soft skin at the nape of Sally’s neck, although it’s all of those things. It’s the absurd and wildly exhilarating thrill that she is kissing a girl. A girl!
Private kisses. Kisses for nobody else. Kisses that aren’t proving anything, that are only for the soft slide and press of mouths. Kisses that make Molly’s fingertips tingle, that make her insides spool and twist and it’s only for them.
Sally might push her softly against a wall, and it’s not like she forgets that Sally has breasts, but feeling them pressing against her is indescribable. She forgets how to breathe, and Sally laughs into her mouth at how ridiculous she is.
She loves it. Gorges on Sally, on her lush mouth, on the way she smells so feminine. Her perfumes are sweet, spicy, and Molly breathes the scent of them from her sheets when she’s alone, shudders happy little sighs into her neck when they’re tangled together on Sally’s sofa.
There’s a perfect curve at the very top of Sally’s thigh. The skin there is addictively soft, and Molly rubs her face against it, licks at it as if she could consume what makes it so flawless. There’s a bubble of desperate elation welling in her throat whenever she looks at Sally, and she presses it down until she can stop herself from saying it, IloveyouIloveyouIloveyou because she’s always known she’s too much, too intense.
It sticks in her oesophagus, thick and heavy.
-
It’s not real, her mother whispers in her ear. You’ll find a nice man and settle down. This? This is frivolity. Two girls can never lead to anything but frivolousness. Don’t you think you’re a little old for this sort of thing, Molly?
-
“Move in with me?”
“Alright.”