Teen Craves Smoking All White 100s

I still think about that night with her, the way she kept bringing up those all white 100s like they were the only thing that mattered. We were just hanging out in my car, windows fogged up from the heat, and she lit one with this slow, deliberate flick of her wrist. I watched her take that first drag, holding the smoke in her lungs for a beat longer than necessary, and honestly, it did something to me. She exhaled in this lazy curl and just passed it back and forth, but it wasn’t the cigarette I was craving anymore—it was the way her lips wrapped around it, the soft, wet sound each time she pulled. The air got thick, heavy with that smell, and suddenly the space between us was charged. She leaned in closer, still puffing, blowing smoke across my neck, and I just lost all sense of anything else. The filter was wet when she handed it over, tasting faintly of her, and all I could do was follow her lead, trading that drag for a kiss that tasted like ash and wanting. It wasn’t about the smoking itself, not really—it was about her handing me control one small, casual gesture at a time until I was completely wrapped up in her.