Lipstick traces

Lipstick kisses leave marks--you have to commit to it when you want to kiss away my lipstick, because everyone will know what you've been doing. Everyone will know from the color of your lips that you've been kissing me.

I leave red marks on your pale skin, and leave red round raised bite marks as well, that will turn purple before they fade away, reminding you each time you pull your shirt over your head: I was there. I tasted you.

I pushed you back against the wall and kissed you and we had to leave the bar because everyone would have know. Not that I minded, when we walked out the door arm in arm and your lips were still tinged red from mine.

We didn't make it to the bedroom.

The couch was good enough, right inside the door. I pushed you down and straddled your lap, sank my teeth into your shoulder and you reached up under my dress for my underwear, yanking them down so you could touch me, feel me, slip inside of me. I pulled your shirt over your head so I could feel your skin, pressed against it, rode you hard.

I can only come when I'm on top.

Right there, on the couch, my knees raw from the vintage velvet, my face red from the stubble on your face, I came harder than I ever had. Your hands on my hips, your mouth against my neck, your own teeth against that spot where my neck meets my shoulder. I was exhausted by the strength of my orgasm, so you had to move me for your own.

It doesn't take long.

You played with my sweaty hair, dyed red that time, and I ran my hands over your shaved head. I didn't have to worry about leaving marks or causing pain. You always liked my mouth, wherever I put it, and you liked me to be rough with you.

We had to wash the traces of each other off, afterward. Wash off the lipstick and sweat and smell of sex before curling into the giant bed on the white sheets.

No lipstick marks on the pillowcase when I wake up, but we have matching red rings on our shoulders.