Suzanne Portnoy

He kissed my neck - tiny, butterfly kisses that barely touched my skin but left a tingle where his lips had been. One hand was around my narrow waist pulling me to him, whilst the other was on the back of my head. His lips were moving across my neck from side to side. I had never been kissed like that before and the effect was intoxicating as I tried to anticipate his next move. I lifted my face, presenting the full length of my neck to him, wanting him to continue, enjoying the sensation.

‘Turn around,’ he said.

I obeyed and stood to face my car, the glow from a street lamp 50 yards away the only light in the alley way. It was past eleven.  ‘I should be going,’ I briefly thought. My children were expecting me home by midnight. But I didn’t want to leave. I let my heavy, sheepskin coat drop to the ground and lay my head on the car’s roof - an overly theatrical gesture.

‘You are terrible,’ he said laughing.

I felt his hands lift up the back of my hair and then his lips touch the back of my neck, the warmth of his breath on me. His lips and tongue skated across the skin. I felt vulnerable and exposed as his lean chest pressed into my back and his mouth danced across the nape of my neck.

The sound of distant footsteps interrupted his desire. He stopped and pulled away from me.

‘You have a beautiful neck,’ he said.