one of your favorite things to do is to kiss him stupid.
he’s ranting about something or other, just spouting words of displeasure about anything and everything that comes to his mind (not about you. never about you, of course) or about his day, really just yapping for the sake of breaking up silence.
your legs are draped over his lap, his thumb rolling over the bone of your ankle while he talks, and you hate how beautiful he looks, how much passionate his body exudes with his free hand waving in dramatics and lips moving at a rate you’re not always used to seeing on your man. so excited, so invested in the words he’s saying, you can’t help but swing a leg up and over his waist, watching as he goes from a distracted yapper to intrigued for your action.
“hi?” he says, brow quirking.
you smile and lean down to bump your nose with his, “hi.”
you quickly connect the kiss, your hands coming up to cradle his cheeks. he quickly kisses you back, caressing your hips and waist in his hands as you let your tongues lace together. you pant gently when his teeth nibble your lip, a loving heat brewing in your chest as you let your bodies melt into one.
hesitantly, he pulls back, chuckling at the whine of disappointment you offer him. “is that your way of telling me to shut the hell up?” he asks, but he’s grinning.
you shrug, “not necessarily. moreso just me saying ‘i really wanted to kiss you, so please stop talking.’”
“well, whatever it is,” he begins, fingers digging into your hips to keep you from moving. “i liked it.”

