[kisses him back softly, slowly relaxing some of his control--there is a quietly wry sense of amused self-deprecation, it always feels like the first time when we do this, but there's also a deep sense of comfortable rightness, and pleasure--this is the only person I would ever want to do this with]
[on his part, there's a sense of deep, echoed pleasure, there's no one else in the world, and some surprisingly firm self-restraint of his own: this much, and no more, or he'll get scared or yell at me . . . it's hard, but this much is good, too . . .
[shivers a little at that, nerves and the briefest hint of wistfulness both, but resolutely concentrates more on the immediate kiss itself, and how much he does like it, and enjoys the closeness, for however long he allows himself to have it]
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[--I'm gross, that you think I'm ugly or not attractive, or maybe you'll just never want me and maybe every time we kiss you hate it . . . ]
--I know it's not true because you tell me so and I trust you, but even though I know it in my head I feel that way a little bit.
[squeezing his hands back]
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Kiss me.
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[so much hopeful excitement]
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and, of course, some very deep, undeniable lust]
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[XXX
sorry!]
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[well, of course]
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and sharing some of that with him, the simple, uncomplicated heat in his chest and belly whenever they're together]
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