You lick your lips after I have spent time kissing you, every time. I watch your tongue run along them, the tip touching your teeth, you press your lips together gently and lick at them. Are you trying to taste more of me? Is your tongue feeling around for damage, bruising, soreness?
I ask you, finally, why you do that.
You smile shyly at me and touch your mouth, “After you kiss me, my lips are sensitive, swollen, and when I do that, it intensifies the feeling…”, you lick them again, as if to test whether what you are saying to me is true.
I don’t tell you that I love watching you do that, I don’t tell you that watching it makes me hunger for more, I don’t tell you that your thoughtful exploration of your own mouth as if it is not yours anymore sits well with me…
I say instead, ‘Whose mouth is it, baby?’
Your voice drops, soft and low, ‘It’s your mouth, Ma’am’.
I nod, ‘Yes, it’s my mouth.’.