A few times.
He only wonders about the strange hue in the room — his room, he is reasonably sure — for a few moments before he notices the bra hanging over the small lamp in the corner.
She had described it as “a pansy purple lace push-up bra.”
He doesn’t think she needs any extra help pushing anything up.
And he had been in a good position to judge.
Many good positions, really.
His mouth is dry.
He sticks his tongue out.
It is a well-earned thirst, he thinks to himself.
He glances around and sees a half-full bottle of water on the bedside table.
He leans, carefully, out over the slightly moving ball of sheets and sexy and messy dark hair on pillow, and grabs the water bottle.
He sits up. He takes a drink.
His lip aches.
Scenes of biting flash across his memory, blow kisses, and disappear.
He pulls the bottle away from his sore lip quickly. Drops fall on his chest.
Cold drops. Leaving a chilly trail through his chest hair.
In a good way.
He inhales deeply.
The not so faint aromas of pheromones and spilled wine and sex bitchslap the parts of his brain responsible for pleasure.
He lies on his back.
He assumes his back looks like the wall of an incarcerated man, counting the days.
Badges of honour
He likes it.
He rolls over on his side facing her.
She rolls over to face him.
“Hi…” she whispers.
Her hair is an explosion. Her eyes aren’t focusing.
He thinks she’s beautiful.
“Don’t look at me,” she whispers, burying her face under a sheet.
But he does.
She puts her hand on his face.
He turns his head to kiss it.
She takes his lower lip between her fingers.
It hurts him.
He doesn’t react.
He brushes her hair out of her face with his hand.
He leans in and kisses her.
A sound most closely resembling a purr escapes her lips.
He lifts her chin with a bent index finger and kisses her neck.
Three… four times…
Then pulls back.
“I want… more…” she whispers.
She kisses him. Hard.
“Me too,” a higher pitched female voice moans from the other side of the bed.