Day 4: J - Temporary Control
It was her hair, always her hair, that got him first. It didn’t matter what she was wearing, or what perfume she sprayed on. It was whether it was down or up, curly or straight, because by that extension he knew which one of her he’d get before she said hello.
But don’t get him wrong, there was something about her fingers too. Slender, long, and delicate as they traced tiny pictures onto his chest. She was always warm after a cold day. A well deep enough that he could keep pulling from and she never emptied. But something in the way her fingers wrote invisible poems against his skin kept him tethered to her. Drifting away only to come swinging back.
He could read her, every gesture, expression, every sigh. The way she bit her lip when she was alone meant she was insecure, but the way she bit her lip when she was talking to a man meant she was interested. The brief stutter in her sentence meant she was caught off guard and the small crease in her brow meant she was annoyed by that.
He had it nailed down to the stockings she wore. Nude for muted occasions, Sunday brunches and family dinners, conservative, girl next door, boring. Black for those nights when she didn’t know if she would end up home, promiscuous, sexy, alive.
Her face pressed deeper into the nook of his neck as her body molded against his. She would adapt to her surroundings, becoming the version of herself that suited the situation the most.
With him she was on fire. All emotions and raw energy. Fingers unbuttoning his dress shirt, legs wrapped around his waist, burgundy lipstick smudged across his collarbone like a tribal mark. Claiming him for herself alone. But she’d never done that before. The unspoken rule. She could be his, pushed up against a wall, splayed across the kitchen table, hoisted up onto the bathroom sink, but after that she was someone else entirely, an enigma.
But don’t get him wrong, there was something about her fingers too. Slender, long, and delicate as they traced tiny pictures onto his chest. She was always warm after a cold day. A well deep enough that he could keep pulling from and she never emptied. But something in the way her fingers wrote invisible poems against his skin kept him tethered to her. Drifting away only to come swinging back.
He could read her, every gesture, expression, every sigh. The way she bit her lip when she was alone meant she was insecure, but the way she bit her lip when she was talking to a man meant she was interested. The brief stutter in her sentence meant she was caught off guard and the small crease in her brow meant she was annoyed by that.
He had it nailed down to the stockings she wore. Nude for muted occasions, Sunday brunches and family dinners, conservative, girl next door, boring. Black for those nights when she didn’t know if she would end up home, promiscuous, sexy, alive.
Her face pressed deeper into the nook of his neck as her body molded against his. She would adapt to her surroundings, becoming the version of herself that suited the situation the most.
With him she was on fire. All emotions and raw energy. Fingers unbuttoning his dress shirt, legs wrapped around his waist, burgundy lipstick smudged across his collarbone like a tribal mark. Claiming him for herself alone. But she’d never done that before. The unspoken rule. She could be his, pushed up against a wall, splayed across the kitchen table, hoisted up onto the bathroom sink, but after that she was someone else entirely, an enigma.
He could use her for what he wanted, but he was no fool, she was using him too. Filling a void or filling a moment, he didn’t know because she never stuck around long enough to figure it out.
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Prompt: Burgundy lipstick. Must include, "She's never done that before."
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