One Night by Eric Jerome Dickey Page B

you just end up with spit in your mouth.”
    â€œYou get cheesecake.”
    â€œJust one kiss?”
    â€œJust one.”
    â€œFor how long?”
    â€œTen seconds.”
    â€œFive. Take it or leave it.”
    â€œOkay. Five. Up to you.”
    I nodded. “Guess a short kiss won’t hurt anybody. It’s almost Christmas. All the palm trees—we can say those are mistletoe, and it will be a kiss based on custom and culture. It can be our secret.”
    He asked, “You okay?”
    â€œI need to floss.”
    I reached into my purse, took out floss, pulled him a long strip, did the same for myself.
    Then I said, “I don’t like bad breath. I have a fear of bad breath.”
    I dug in my purse and pulled out two individually wrapped, melt-in-your-mouth hospitality mints that I had left over from eating breakfast at Chick-fil-A about two weeks ago.
    I handed him one. “Suck on that first.”
    â€œSeriously?”
    â€œI want you to suck it. Or there will be no kiss.”
    He unwrapped his and I unwrapped mine.
    He sucked on his and I sucked on mine.
    He asked, “How do we do this?”
    â€œDude, you’re the one who wanted the stupid kiss. Make it happen or say good night. And let me put down the rules. No sloppy tongue, no ass-grabbing, and no grinding. I’ll slap the Jesus out of you.”
    He took my hands and eased me closer. His touch, my fingertips in his hand, made me tingle, and that tingle ran across my lower back, startled me, and I almost tripped, felt aware, clumsy. Then we were close, bodies touching, adjusting, trying to figure who should put their hands where, how close we really needed to stand, like we were middle school kids getting ready to start their first slow dance.
    â€œDude.”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œTo the right. You’re supposed to turn your head to the right when you kiss, not to the left.”
    â€œIt looked like you were turning your head to the left, so I mirrored your movement.”
    â€œI was adjusting my dreadlocks. Don’t want one to end up in our mouths.”
    His finger touched my chin and I turned my neck, angled my mouth toward his.
    His lips touched mine and I felt a mild jolt. His tongue touched my lips and I jumped.
    He asked, “You okay?”
    â€œLet’s try that again.”
    â€œWe don’t have to.”
    â€œNo, I want to.”
    â€œYou’re falling apart.”
    â€œTrying to not freak out. I can do this. I can. I can do this.”
    My mouth opened, not all at once, but it creaked open and accepted the tip of his tongue.
    The tip. Just the tip. It always starts with them whispering they want to give you the tip.
    I felt the tip of his tongue. Our tongues touched. And we were connected.
    My mouthed opened a little more, then a little more.
    Our tongues intertwined.
    I opened my eyes. I saw that his eyes were closed. Then I closed my eyes again.
    My heartbeat accelerated. My hands held him to keep steady. My breathing thickened.
    I was nervous. I exhaled tension, unable to relax, like I was having sex for the first time.
    Then it felt like summer. The tension dissipated. Kissing him became a meditation. His tongue moved in and out of my mouth, tasted me in a slow, easy, unhurried, perfect rhythm, hypnotic and smooth, then he sucked my tongue, sucked it softly, and, without warning, I imagined other things.
    One minute. Two minutes. Three. Four. I fell into a sweet, warm haze. Dizzy, I eased away from the kiss, from him, moved five steps back, put a safe distance between us and caught my breath.
    â€œDamn, dude.”
    â€œWhat?”
    I looked down at the ground, looked at the dark, damp asphalt under my Timberlands.
    He asked, “What happened?”
    â€œI’m checking to see if my drawers came off. That kiss was a panty-dropper.”
    He came back to me. My head tilted to the right and my mouth opened as my eyes closed. Our tongues reconnected. Soft.