Chapter 1: The Kissing Booth Queue
The quad was a riot of spring color, the cherry blossoms a pale pink haze against the blue sky. The air hummed with chatter, pop music from someone’s speaker, and the clean scent of cut grass. Right in the middle of it all, the tent stood out like a beacon. The red and white stripes flapped in the gentle breeze, a bold, almost garish statement.
Beneath it, Owen fidgeted with the sign taped to the front of the folding table.
KISS FOR $10
CHARITY BENEFIT
The letters looked accusing. His stomach was a tight knot. This had seemed like a simple, silly idea when the student council brainstormed fundraisers. He’d volunteered without thinking. Now, facing the reality of it, he felt like he might throw up.
The line started forming before he even sat down.
It was all women. A few he recognized from his philosophy seminar, others were complete strangers. They whispered behind their hands, giggles erupting like bubbles. Their collective gaze was a physical weight on his skin.
“Oh my god, look at his face,” someone hissed, not unkindly.
“He’s so fucking cute I can’t stand it.”
Owen kept his eyes on the grain of the wooden folding chair. He didn’t feel cute. He felt short. His feet didn’t quite touch the ground.
Then she was there, a whirlwind of red curls and confidence, cutting to the front with a dismissive wave at the girl who’d been first. “Ladies, ladies. Some of us have rehearsals. I need to expedite this.”
Maggie Sinclair placed her hands flat on the table and leaned over. Her tank top dipped, offering a generous view of freckled cleavage. Owen’s eyes snapped up to her face, his cheeks flaming.
“Ten bucks for a kiss, right?” Her voice was a low, playful purr.
“Yeah. For the, uh, the library renovation fund,” Owen managed, his throat dry.
Maggie pulled a crumpled twenty from the pocket of her cut-off shorts and smoothed it on the table. “Here’s for two. But I’m thinking… bulk discount.” She produced another twenty, then another, fanning out six bills total. “Let’s call it an hour. I want to ruin you for all these other girls.”
A collective groan and a few laughs came from the line. Owen stared at the money. Sixty dollars. That was… that was a lot of kissing. His mind blanked.
“I… I don’t think the rules…”
“I’m making a new rule.” Maggie came around the table, her movement effortless. She didn’t wait for him to stand. She simply leaned down, her hands on the arms of his chair, caging him in. The scent of her—coconut sunscreen and something sharp like ginger—wrapped around him. “You just sit there, Owen. Let me do all the work.”
Her mouth was on his before he could form a thought. It wasn’t a tentative, first-kiss peck. It was an invasion. Her lips were full and demanding, already parting. He froze, his own lips sealed shut, his body rigid.
She pulled back an inch, her green eyes dancing. “You gotta open up, sweetheart. This isn’t a greeting for your grandma.” Her thumb brushed his lower lip, a shock of rough skin against his softness. “Relax your mouth for me. Just a little.”
He did, a helpless, millimeter gasp of a parting. It was enough. She came back in, and this time her tongue swept into his mouth. The sensation was profound, overwhelmingly wet and intimate. He made a soft, muffled sound against her. His hands, which had been gripping his own thighs, came up to push weakly at her shoulders, but she just pressed closer, the heat of her stomach against his chest.
She kissed him deeply, thoroughly. Her tongue mapped the roof of his mouth, tangled with his own hesitant one. She tasted like iced coffee and mint. One of her hands left the chair arm and cupped the back of his head, her fingers tangling in his messy brown hair, holding him steady. He was drowning in it. The world shrank to the slick, hot friction of her mouth, the gentle scrape of her teeth on his lip, the overwhelming presence of her.
She broke the kiss, both of them breathing heavily. A string of saliva connected their mouths for a second before breaking. Owen’s lips felt swollen, unfamiliar. The cheers from the line sounded distant, underwater.
“See?” Maggie whispered, her forehead resting against his. “Not so hard. You’re a natural. Now, we’ve got fifty-nine more minutes to go.”
She didn’t wait for him to recover. She kissed him again, and this time her hands were bolder. One slid down his arm, the other traveled from his hair to his neck, her thumb stroking his hammering pulse point. He was starting to understand the rhythm, the push and pull. He tentatively moved his own lips, and she rewarded him with a low hum of approval that vibrated through his whole body.
His awkwardness began to melt, replaced by a dawning, thrilling heat in his gut. His hands, still on her shoulders, stopped pushing. His fingers curled into the soft fabric of her tank top strap.
Maggie pulled back, grinning. “There he is.” She glanced at her watch, theatrical. “Okay, intermission. But I’m claiming this chair. Don’t go anywhere.”
She sauntered off toward the lemonade stand, leaving Owen shell-shocked, his mouth aching, the taste of her lingering. He looked past the buzzing line, his hazel eyes wide.
At the very back, almost hidden by the trunk of a blooming cherry tree, stood Delilah Chen. She was clutching a fistful of wrinkled bills, her knuckles white. Her straight black hair formed a curtain around her burning face, but her dark, doe-like eyes were fixed on him, filled with a longing so intense it was like a physical touch across the distance. She saw him look and immediately dropped her gaze to her shoes.
Owen’s breath hitched. The heat Maggie had stirred in him twisted, mixed with something else—a sharp, sudden pang of recognition. He knew that look of quiet, desperate wanting. He saw it in the mirror every damn day.
Maggie was coming back, a cup in each hand, her smile wide and victorious. The line shuffled forward, impatient. But Owen’s attention was fractured now, split between the bold, claiming fire in front of him and the silent, trembling spark waiting at the end of the line.
He had fifty-five minutes left with Maggie. And then, he knew with a certainty that tightened his chest, he would have to face whatever was in Delilah Chen’s eyes, and in the crumpled money clenched in her small, nervous hand. dogg
And then, he knew with a certainty that tightened his chest, he would have to face whatever was in Delilah Chen’s eyes, and in the crumpled money clenched in her small, nervous hand.
Maggie returned, handing him a cold cup of lemonade. “For the throat. You’re gonna need it.” She winked, then looked at the line. “Alright, who’s next? Oh, wait. That’s still me.” She didn’t even drink from her own cup. She placed it on the table, turned, and without ceremony, she sat directly on his lap.
The wooden chair creaked in protest. Owen gasped as her full weight settled onto him, the warm, denim-covered curve of her ass pressing down on his thighs. She was solid, real, pinning him completely. Her back was to the line now, a wall of red curls blocking his view of everything but her.
“Maggie, what—”
“Shhh.” She twisted, looped her arms around his neck, and captured his mouth again. This was different. This was ownership.
There was no teasing build-up. Her tongue plunged deep, a demanding, wet rhythm that left him gasping for air through his nose. He could only take it. His hands fluttered, then settled helplessly on her hips, feeling the muscle move beneath soft skin as she ground herself subtly against him. The heat was immediate, a low shock that shot straight to his groin. He was painfully, obviously hard in seconds, trapped between the rough fabric of his jeans and the insistent pressure of her body.
She broke for air, panting, her forehead against his. “You feel that?” she murmured, her voice a dirty secret just for him. She rocked her hips once, a slow, deliberate roll that made him whimper. “Yeah, you do. Just relax, Owen. Let me show you how this works.”
Then she dove back in. The next fifty-five minutes were a blur of sensation and surrender. She dominated his mouth completely, her kisses alternating between deep, soul-sucking invasions and biting, nibbling attacks on his lower lip. She tasted his inexperience and devoured it, teaching him with a ruthless, joyful energy. Her hands were everywhere—tangling in his hair to angle his head just how she wanted it, sliding under the hem of his t-shirt to scrape her short nails over the quivering skin of his stomach, squeezing his shoulders.
He was drowning in her. The sounds from the quad—the music, the laughter—muffled into a distant hum. The only realities were the slick, hot slide of her tongue, the aching pressure in his lap, the coconut-ginger scent of her sweat, and the low, approving noises she made in her throat every time he tried to mimic her movements.
Once, she pulled back, her lips swollen and glossy with shared spit. “Touch my tits,” she breathed, her voice raw.
His eyes widened. “People are—”
“I don’t give a fuck who’s watching. Touch them. Now.”
His hands, trembling, moved from her hips up her sides. He cupped her breasts through her tank top. They were heavy, full. Her nipples were hard little points against his palms. She moaned, a deep, genuine sound, and arched into his touch, kissing him with renewed fervor. “Yeah. Just like that. Learn what a woman feels like.”
Time lost all meaning. It was just her mouth, her weight, the building, torturous friction where their bodies met. He was leaking pre-come into his boxers, a damp, embarrassing reality. He was shaking with a need he didn’t know how to name, let alone satisfy.
Finally, she pulled away, breathing hard. She glanced at her watch, a smirk playing on her ravaged lips. “Time’s up.” She leaned in, nipped his earlobe. “You’re a fucking quick study. I’d take you home and finish your education, but I’ve got rehearsal.” She stood up in one smooth motion.
The cold air that rushed to replace the heat of her body was a shock. He felt exposed, vacant, his jeans uncomfortably tight. The world flooded back in—the staring line, the whispers now charged with a new, knowing energy. Maggie picked up her cup, drank deeply, and sauntered away with a final, devastating wink.
Owen sat, wrecked. His lips throbbed. His whole body thrummed with unfamiliar, unmet want. He couldn’t think.
A soft, hesitant voice cut through the static in his head. “Um. Is it… is it my turn?”
Delilah stood before the table, her small frame tense. She carefully laid out a stack of wrinkled bills—fives and ones, counted with obvious care. Forty dollars. Four kisses. She couldn’t meet his eyes. The contrast was absolute. Where Maggie was a wildfire, Delilah was a single, struck match, trembling in the dark.
Owen looked at her, really looked. Saw the fierce blush staining her neck, the way her lower lip trembled. He saw the courage it took for her to be there. And he felt a sudden, crashing clarity. The raw, filthy lesson Maggie had just branded into him was still screaming in his nerve endings, but this… this was something else entirely.
He swallowed, his throat sore. “Yeah,” he said, his voice hoarse. “It’s your turn.”