by Grania Goldblum

Your lips were warm, of course, and your shoulder sweaty where I tried to rest my hand. My fingers kept sliding down your skin. The wind whistled over the roof of the hothouse, and when I inched closer to you on the bench, you smelled of wood steam and the squash that we ate for dinner. You pushed your tongue tentatively against my lips and I opened my mouth. Your tongue swept slowly along my teeth and palate and tongue. I sat up in your arms, our lips making a soft smacking noise. My hand went to your head to thread its fingers in your hair.
     “Oh,” I said, pulling back, surprised at myself, “Is that okay?”
     “Mm. Yes,” you managed. You forced yourself to focus on my face. “Can I touch you?”
     I blinked, watched a drop of sweat roll down your neck. I nodded.