Pressed. Silently, we stood in his kitchen, the small of my back pressed against his counter. Arctic Monkeys plays from the living room. He breathes down on me, short breaths hitting the left side of my face. He’s stares down at me indifferently. No expression. No hitches in his breathing. His hands at either side of me, pinkies itching to be touched. He grabs my left hand, fingers weak in his strong grip. Slowly, he nibbles each finger tip, one by one, starting from my pinky, working his way to my thumb. Nerves tremble as he now kisses and sucks each tip, never breaking his stare. My lips separate as he does the deed. I envy my fingers getting such attention from such beautiful lips; oh how I’ve fantasized them on my own. The corner of his mouth twitches into a smirk as he concludes sucking on my thumb. His index is gently placed under my chin, guiding me towards the place I’ve always felt I belonged, pursed and tasted, enjoyed and savored. I lick my lips in anticipation, ready for the softest crash landing. A long time coming journey comes to unexpected stop, millimeters from home. He smiles devishly as he shakes his head no, abandoning me. He steps away gradually as my body internally crumbles of defeat. The tease leaves me shell shocked and achey. “Later.” he says before he slips out the door to join the party outside.