An Extra Kiss On International Kissing Day

They saw the reminder on their phones—International Kissing Day—and laughed like guilty schoolgirls. Betty closed the laptop. Nicole locked the door with two clicks. No fanfare, just need. She pulled Betty in for the kiss that always starts slow and never ends there, lips barely brushing before tongues take over, tasting last night’s wine and tonight’s want. Betty’s hands slid beneath the silk hem of Nicole’s dress, found no barrier, and groaned into her mouth. It was one of those kisses that got wetter the longer it lasted, spit-slick and deep, turning the room quiet except for small, helpless sounds. Clothes dropped in soft piles. Nicole steered them to the sofa, pressed Betty down with a palm between her breasts, knelt like she had earned the privilege. She parted her legs with careful thumbs, spread her open, and licked one long stripe up the center, letting the flat of her tongue savor every inch before she flicked the swollen clit, then sucked it between her lips. Betty arched, breath catching. Nicole didn’t rush. She stayed with the kiss she’d promised: slow circles, deliberate pressure, saliva dripping down to soak the cushion beneath. When she slid two fingers inside and crooked them just right, Betty’s moan broke on a curse. Her hips bucked once, twice, and then everything tightened—walls fluttering, thighs trembling—until the orgasm rolled through her like a held breath finally let go. Nicole kept licking, gentle, coaxing the last little spasms out of her until Betty laughed, breathless, and tugged her up for another kiss that tasted like both of them.