Sugar Baby Lips -

She smiled then, and he felt it like a punch to the gut. Those lips. God, those lips. They were even better up close—plush, slightly parted, the lower one a fraction fuller than the upper. She had a habit of biting the inside of her cheek when she was thinking, which made the soft flesh of her bottom lip tremble.

“I’m saying,” he reached out and, for the second time, traced her lower lip with his finger. But this time, he didn’t admire it like a collector. He touched it like a man touching something fragile. “I’m saying I don’t want sugar baby lips. I want yours. Chapped. Bitten. Real.” sugar baby lips

But the center of it all, the currency he hoarded, was her mouth. She smiled then, and he felt it like a punch to the gut

And she walked out.

“So have you,” she said. “You said you wanted me. You just wanted a mouth to perform for you.” They were even better up close—plush, slightly parted,

He kept one thing: a single cotton round from the bathroom trash, smeared with the ghost of her berry lipstick. He never looked at it. But he never threw it away.

The arrangement had no contract, only a rhythm. She would be his companion at dinners, his date at galas, his solace in his penthouse overlooking the city. In return, her tuition vanished, her wardrobe filled with silk and cashmere, and her mother received the best care money could buy.