It should be a lot like kissing a human, but it's not.

The mechanics of the kiss aren't so different in order to create such a distinction, but with Spock, it's inevitable — uncontrollable.

The light touch of his lips — tender and slow — explores not just the feel of her lips, but the very emotions that drive them.

She feels like she's more than just an experiment to him; she feels like a mission, one that he is bent on completing by peeling away layer after layer, with an arduous pace.

Every second demands a strict form of adoration that Nyota never would've thought anyone capable of performing, let alone a Vulcan.

The ardent touch of their lips — the way he pulls on her bottom lip — lets her know that he's learning — adapting — and yet, somehow, kissing him is still so different from anything she has ever experienced.

When the kisses escalate — as they always do — and she's allowed passage into his mouth with her tongue, she forgets to breathe, finding a new source of life inside of him. When he reciprocates, her knees all but buckle and her hands tighten their hold on his shoulders. His tongue explores her without hurry, dances against her own with such calculated precision, learning how each movement can undo her until every inch of her aches.

Kissing a Vulcan should be a lot like kissing a human — after all, the mechanics of it are easily mimicked and performed — but this is different.

'Very different.'

Uhura moans softly into his lips as she finally accepts that kissing Spock is an entirely new experience — one that she will undoubtedly practice more often, knowing for a fact that it will always feel like this, as long as it's Spock.