He likes the kiss. It's different than kissing a girl, stubble catching against his lips, your lips not quite as soft. Or maybe he's imagining that because it's what you'd expect. He hasn't kissed anyone in a long while. He slept with Lisa, shared a bed with her night after night for a whole year, and of course they had sex. But making out with Lisa never felt like this, where it makes his chest swell and his heart want to crawl up his throat, where you become the only thing that's important in the world for as long as their lips are locked together. Actually, he's not sure any kiss has felt like this since he was 19. That's maybe a little scary.
He slouches further down when you nudge him, his t-shirt rucking up as his back slides against the leather of the seat. Your thigh settles against his groin and he makes an involuntary sound, a startled grunt in the back of his throat. His fingers clench into the fabric of your shirt and he rolls his hips up against you, his thigh pressing against your groin as he does. Cas. Cas, he's getting hard. He's not sure he's supposed to, with you being a guy and with this being a pretense. Supposedly.
He doesn't want to stop, though, not until you slide your hand under his sleeve and the tips of your fingers brush over the scar there. The touch makes a shiver run down his spine, makes him arch his back in surprise as you moan. He's suddenly very aware of how close you are, how your body is pressed against his as tightly as possible. You're a guy, Cas. You're Cas. You break the kiss moments before he would have, too overwhelmed by the sudden onslaught of the reality of this moment to continue kissing you.
He breathes hard, curls his fingers more tightly into your shirt when you say his name. Twitches a little and tilts his head back when he can feel your teeth against his skin—a sensation that feels good-bad-right-wrong, that he wants more of but doesn't know how to handle if it continued. He lets go of you as you move down, breathing a little more freely when your weight shifts off of his upper body. He runs his fingers into your hair, quietly moans when you kiss his stomach, then lets his eyes half-close in an overwhelmed, blissed-out expression when you move further up to lick his nipple and kiss his chest.
Then you stop, and he's not sure if it's regret or relief he feels. Maybe both; deep, raw regret at the loss of stimulation, and relief because the stimulation was getting far too much. He blinks when you pull back and kneel, his hands sliding over your back down your sides to come to rest on your thighs. He just watches you look down at him for a few moments, shifts his hips a little. He's really hard, Cas. One brief glance at your crotch tells him that you are, too.
"I don't—" He has to clear his throat to stop his voice from catching, meets your eyes again. "I don't wanna pretend. I mean. I'm—not. Pretending." That much should be obvious. He's really not pretending. He wets his lips. "Maybe we—uh. Maybe we need to slow down a little."
Because this is really new, Cas. This is really surprising. He hasn't done this before, and if they continue like this, it's going to freak him out.
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He slouches further down when you nudge him, his t-shirt rucking up as his back slides against the leather of the seat. Your thigh settles against his groin and he makes an involuntary sound, a startled grunt in the back of his throat. His fingers clench into the fabric of your shirt and he rolls his hips up against you, his thigh pressing against your groin as he does. Cas. Cas, he's getting hard. He's not sure he's supposed to, with you being a guy and with this being a pretense. Supposedly.
He doesn't want to stop, though, not until you slide your hand under his sleeve and the tips of your fingers brush over the scar there. The touch makes a shiver run down his spine, makes him arch his back in surprise as you moan. He's suddenly very aware of how close you are, how your body is pressed against his as tightly as possible. You're a guy, Cas. You're Cas. You break the kiss moments before he would have, too overwhelmed by the sudden onslaught of the reality of this moment to continue kissing you.
He breathes hard, curls his fingers more tightly into your shirt when you say his name. Twitches a little and tilts his head back when he can feel your teeth against his skin—a sensation that feels good-bad-right-wrong, that he wants more of but doesn't know how to handle if it continued. He lets go of you as you move down, breathing a little more freely when your weight shifts off of his upper body. He runs his fingers into your hair, quietly moans when you kiss his stomach, then lets his eyes half-close in an overwhelmed, blissed-out expression when you move further up to lick his nipple and kiss his chest.
Then you stop, and he's not sure if it's regret or relief he feels. Maybe both; deep, raw regret at the loss of stimulation, and relief because the stimulation was getting far too much. He blinks when you pull back and kneel, his hands sliding over your back down your sides to come to rest on your thighs. He just watches you look down at him for a few moments, shifts his hips a little. He's really hard, Cas. One brief glance at your crotch tells him that you are, too.
"I don't—" He has to clear his throat to stop his voice from catching, meets your eyes again. "I don't wanna pretend. I mean. I'm—not. Pretending." That much should be obvious. He's really not pretending. He wets his lips. "Maybe we—uh. Maybe we need to slow down a little."
Because this is really new, Cas. This is really surprising. He hasn't done this before, and if they continue like this, it's going to freak him out.