As a test, I plucked out a vibrant red lipstick and slathered my mouth with it. After I gave him the tiniest peck on the lips, his fingers were squeezing my thighs. Brushing against my clit. Unbuttoning my jeans and slipping off my underwear.
“Have I ever old you how fucking hot you are?” he whispered as he left little bites on my neck.
The damn makeup worked. Made him horny for me. Not her. Me.
But by the time he shoved his head between my legs, thrashed his tongue around, and made me orgasm (twice), the red lipstick had faded from my mouth. And once the magic of the makeup was gone, that motherfucker went right back to texting on his phone.
No, he actually answered a phone call from her. Right there in front of me.
“Hey, you,” he said, deepening his voice to sound sexier than he had any right to sound. “No, I’m not busy… Oh yeah? When did you want to go?”
Asshole. I dug through my bag, yanked out the blue lipstick, and slapped it across my lips. Then I leaned over and left a mark against his cheek. Against his jaw. Against the corner of his lips.
That last one must’ve done the trick, because his mouth kept moving, probably to tell her he would have no problem leaving my house and going straight to see her, but no words escaped. He parted his lips a little wider, an attempt to clear his throat, but still no sound.