Teenie love

I still remember the first girl I loved—and how she became the first girl to touch me like that. We were barely out of our teens, both of us slim and curious, her hair golden, mine dark. Our kisses started soft, almost shy, then deepened until I could feel her tongue sliding against mine. She tasted like mint and nerves. Hands slipped under cotton tops, fingertips tracing warm skin until we found the soft swell of each other’s breasts. She pushed my shirt up, kissed my nipples until they tightened, then sucked them with surprising hunger. I slid my fingers beneath her skirt, found the damp lace between her thighs, rubbed until she gasped and rocked against my hand. When we finally peeled off the rest, she spread her legs for me and I tasted her—salt-sweet, hot, trembling. She came with my mouth on her and two fingers inside, then rolled me onto my back and returned the favor, licking me slow and deliberate until I shook and cried out. We lay tangled afterward, hearts still racing, the sheets damp beneath us.