This is based on a recent experience I had. I wish it could have ended like this, though. Just experimenting with sensual scenes. One shot, comments are appreciated. Thanks! :)


"And finally," Mrs. Berry says, with a smile, "our class president is..." She pauses for dramatic effect. I can feel my anxiety clinching in my stomach like a fist.

"John Mason," she says, and I feel the fist dissolve. I stare in disbelief as John stands up and shakes Mrs. Berry's hand. The class applauds politely. I can feel the edges of my eyes stinging. I have lost the election.

I leap from my seat and race out of the room. I can't stay there another minute.

I run down the hallway and around the corner. The tears burst from my eyes like water breaking from a dam. I sob into my hands. Not fair. Not fair. Not fair.

I should have known. John is popular, and I am a nerd. A loner. A...a...

I hear footsteps. I turn to face my teacher. "Mrs. Berry, I'm sorry I ran out, but-"

But I stop. Because it's not my teacher. It's him.

"Kate. Are you alright?" asks John. A genuinely worried look crosses his angel face. For a moment, I'm distracted by his shaggy brown hair, deep chocolate irises, long eyelashes, and overall gorgeous features. Then my distress turns to rage.

"Oh, what do you care?!" I spit angrily as a traitor tear leaks down my cheek. I swiftly wipe it away. "Why are you even out here, you bastard? Did you come to rub it in my face that everyone loves you and that I'm a ugly freak? Piss off." I tear my eyes away from his hypnotic gaze.

"You're not ugly OR a freak," he says. "And I came to tell you that...I'm sorry. And that you're right. You would have made a better president than me."

I whip my head angrily around at him. "Then why did you even run? You're already captain of the football team. You have everything!" I snap, finally releasing a waterfall of words I'd been holding back for years. "You're ridiculously attractive, have good grades, tons of friends, and all your teachers love you. You have everything I could possibly ever want. I have NOTHING! Why couldn't you just let me have this ONE THING? You already broke my heart, John! Why do you want to ruin my life?!"

By this time, I'm shouting, and I don't care who hears. This guy ruins my life everyday. I hate him. I break down in sobs again. I feel him come closer, and we're almost touching.

"Why do you hate me?" I whispered pitifully, staring his deep brown eyes.

"I don't hate you," he says huskily. "I had to get your attention somehow."

I look up in bewilderment. "What are you-"

He wipes a tear from my face. And then he does something that takes me completely by surprise.

He kisses me.

Now, I've been kissed before, during truth or dare and stuff, but by boys who are inexperienced and clumsy. John is certainly something else.

His lips are gentle, but meld with mine with incredible intensity. His hands cup my face, his thumbs brushing at my cheeks.

My limbs nearly go limp as he deepens the kiss and I responding, kissing him right back. His sturdy arms move down to entrap me at my torso and mine wind around his neck, my hands burying themselves in his thick brown thatch of hair. This kiss is beginning to turn from one long strong liplock to many rapid, desperate kisses. I then realize that I haven't breathed in forever and inhale deeply through my nose. I immediately take in his scent-the leather from his varsity jacket, his woodsey shampoo; but most of all, his sweet, salty, hot skin, which tastes like heaven. I want to bottle the smell and spray it on my pillow at home.

He presses my back to the wall of lockers behind us. And he's still kissing me. I'm gasping. "Wha...what are you..." I don't care about finishing that statement as he traps my lips yet again, tracing them with the feather light tip of his tongue. His arms are hugged snug around my ribcage, and through our clothes I can feel his firm torso. He coaxes my lips apart and our embrace goes full out carnal. Again, I've French kissed guys on dares, but this is absolutely mind blowing. His tongue slowly, hesitantly slips in my mouth and explores it like a spelunker.

This is when I push him away (albeit with some regret) and exclaim, "What the hell is wrong with you?! You are one screwed up son of a bitch!" I stomp into the bathroom, leaving him outside by himself.

I lock myself in a stall and let a few spare tears fall, plus a couple new ones. "John," I whisper. "What have you done to me?"