a first kiss. Not really.
Brett had kissed Matteo in the library during charm school, soft and practiced and instructional, learning how to take tongue and give it back like a woman should. He'd kissed the air in mirrors a thousand times, perfecting the angle of his head, the part of his lips.
But this, this was his first real kiss.
Lance's mouth was warm and desperate against his, tasting like cold air and the mint gum he chewed on planes and something underneath that was just Lance, familiar and brand new at the same time. His lips were firm and sure, not asking permission anymore, taking.
Brett gasped into the kiss and felt Lance take advantage of that gasp, his tongue sliding against Brett's lower lip, asking, and Brett opened for him instantly, his perfect white veneers parting, his slightly sharpened canines catching the light for a second before his mouth was full of Lance.
The world narrowed to the doorway of the Cocoon, to the snow falling soft around them, to the heat of Lance's big hands spanning Brett's tiny corseted waist through the black semi-sheer dress.
Lance kissed him like a man starving. One hand slid up Brett's back, over the back zipper, up to the nape of his neck, tangling in his long straight honey blonde hair and tugging just enough to tilt Brett's head back, to give him better access. The other hand stayed locked on Brett's waist, holding him up because Brett's knees had completely given out in the 140 mm patent Mary Jane platforms.
Brett whimpered into his mouth, a high, needy sound he'd never made in his life, and clutched at Lance's overcoat with both hands, his long pink nails digging into the wool. His D cup breasts pressed soft and heavy against Lance's hard chest, his nipples peaked and aching under the lace bra, sensitive from the maximum hormones.
He kissed back the way Matteo taught him, but better, because this wasn't a lesson, this was want. He took Lance's tongue into his mouth and sucked gently, then gave his own back, sliding it slow and silky against Lance's, tasting him, learning him.
Lance groaned deep in his throat, the sound vibrating through Brett's entire body, and walked him backward until Brett's towering heels hit the threshold and his back hit the cool wood of the doorframe. Lance caged him in with his body, one forearm braced beside Brett's head, the other hand still fisted in his hair.
He broke the kiss just long enough to breathe, their foreheads touching, both of them panting hard, steam clouding in the cold air between their parted lips.
"Look at me," Lance whispered, his voice shattered.
Brett opened his big blue eyes, wet with tears and mascara and hormones, and looked up at the man who'd known him since they were sixteen and broke and sharing fries at the Whitefish diner.
Lance stared down at him, at the smoky eyes and the perfect contour and the full nude lips swollen from his kiss, at the long blonde hair mussed from his hands, at the goddess in black he'd paid a million dollars to create and who was now so much more than money could buy.
"You," Lance breathed, his thumb brushing over Brett's swollen lower lip, smearing the nude gloss, "are going to ruin me."
Brett smiled then, slow and shaky and triumphant, his sharp canines flashing, his perfect teeth showing. "Good," he whispered back.
And he pulled Lance down by the lapels of his overcoat and kissed him again, harder this time, deeper, pouring eleven weeks of loneliness and transformation and becoming into it.
This kiss was different. This kiss was claiming. Brett angled his head the way he'd practiced, opened his mouth wider, let Lance feel the dangerous edge of his sharpened canines against his tongue, and Lance moaned into his mouth like he'd been punched.
Brett's hands slid up from Lance's chest to his shoulders to his neck, his pink nails scraping lightly against the short hair at his nape, and Lance shivered, a full-body shudder that Brett felt through both their clothes.
The snow fell harder around them, dusting Lance's dark hair, melting on Brett's bare shoulders where the semi-sheer sleeves clung, but neither of them felt the cold. Brett was burning up from the inside out, his maximum-dose hormones making every nerve ending sing, making his skin feel too tight, making his breasts feel heavy and aching, making the lace of his garter belt pull deliciously against his stockinged thighs as he arched into Lance.
Lance's hand left Brett's hair and slid down, over his throat, over his collarbone, stopping just above the swell of his breast, hovering, shaking, asking permission without words.
Brett took Lance's wrist in his small hand and guided it down, pressing Lance's big warm palm over his breast through the black dress, over the lace bra, letting him feel the weight of it, the reality of it, the softness and the heat.
Lance made a broken sound against Brett's mouth and squeezed gently, reverently, like Brett was something precious and breakable.
Brett gasped and broke the kiss, his head falling back against the doorframe, his long throat exposed, his chest heaving under Lance's hand.
"Lance," he whimpered, his voice wrecked and female and full of want.
Lance kissed his throat then, open-mouthed and hot, right over his pulse, and Brett's eyes rolled back, his hands fisting in Lance's hair, his towering platforms slipping on the marble.
It was too much and not enough. The hormones made everything feel like the first time, like his skin was new, like his body was a gift he'd just unwrapped.
Lance lifted his head, his lips wet and swollen, his blue eyes black with lust and wonder. He looked at Brett, really looked at him, at the woman in his arms trembling in six-inch heels and black lace.
"I will remember this kiss," Lance whispered, his voice rough with emotion, "for the rest of my life."
Brett, crying now for real, tears cutting clean tracks through his perfect smoky makeup, smiled his dangerous, toothy, perfect smile and cupped Lance's jaw with both his small hands.
"Then make it worth remembering," he purred, and pulled him back down...