The next is the waiting. The pulse of blood under the skin as they struggle for control, wanting to keep from giving in to the temptation to react. It's a losing battle. He knows that, has perfected it so he knows exactly when the moment of surrender will come.

After that, it's simple. All the difficult steps are taken and he needs nothing more than to stride forward and claim his prize. A few paces and he's there, too close for comfort and they'll shift from foot to foot, unsure and uncertain at this point. Knowing the Rubicon lies in the distance now, too far gone to turn back.

He cups the chin gently, eyes on the lips. Watches them part in anticipation and possible protest. No words reach them, of course. What would they say in this moment? To tell him to stop is impossible. The chance has gone now and won't return. His name would merely sound as encouragement, so that cannot be spoken. A please could mean stop or could mean go on, but the question lies and would not be answered any more clearly than with what he is about to do.

Still, he waits. Better to watch them struggle with it, feel their blood rise. Blush tingeing cheeks and lips, heat crawling up their face and along their skin. His breath is no doubt warm on flesh, close enough to taste it in the air between them. He tilts his head slightly, letting his gaze drift up to the eyes, half-closed and threatening to give in, lashes flickering closed and open in a rapid pace.

Next comes the tongue, past parted lips to wet them. A small pink pressure, darting across parched and dry flesh, leaving behind a trail of damp that darkens the color until it's like fruit, ripe and juicy for the picking, for the tasting.

His thumb begins a slow stroke against the jaw, caressing the soft skin just beneath the bone, curving down to the neck. He can feel the pulse beating, blood coursing through the veins like wildfire, spreading heat in its wake. He knows bare skin would be flushed with it, darkened with desire like the eyes as he looks again, pupils dilated wide with hunger.

The tongue darts out again, lips gone dry in the waiting. He watches the swallow, thick throated and rough. He leans in, his mouth barely brushing, careful to avoid another swipe of the tongue, be caught too easily, too quickly, too soon. He pulls back and licks his own lips, tasting the promise of the kiss before he smiles, letting his hand slide back from the chin to cup the nape of the neck, feel the thickness of the hair against his skin, the soft, delicate strands against his palm.

It comes then, the soft exhalation that he's waiting for, the surrender that shivers like a breath against his skin. Even now though, he waits, waits for the sound that signals the defeat, the low noise in the back of the throat that is pure want, pushed too close to the edge with waiting. The noise that will demand action or reaction. He waits a beat more, waits until the intake of breath and then moves in, his mouth fitted against parted lips, tasting wine-sweet breath and warm flesh.

He closes his eyes, letting the moment slide into the kiss, just the feeling of it. Pressure and release, give and take. He feels teeth and lips and tongue against his, attempting to steal a surrender from him. His hand tightens just slightly against the neck, thumb and forefinger at the base of the skull, holding captive with the gentlest of touches. He owns the first kiss, claims victory henceforth with it, and does not surrender to it.