Look. I know it’s childish. I know that it’s only going to cause you to be asked

Look.

I know it’s childish. I know that it’s only going to cause you to be asked, a dozen times, whether that’s a lovebite, or a hickey, or whether you’re using a new fabric softener that doesn’t really agree with you. I know that you’ll blush, cover your neck with your hands, or a scarf, and brush off the question. I know that you’ll silently swear at me every time, and I know you’ll smile when you do it. 

But despite all that, knowing the grief it’s going to cause you, I honestly can’t help myself. When my mouth is trailing that perfect path from the gentle swell of your stomach, over the dramatic curve of your breasts, and all the way up to your neck, I need to take a breather, pause for a moment, and get my bearings. My lips need to hunker down, savour the place for a second. 

I have to make my mark, somehow. Sometimes I don’t want to hurt you; things are softer, more playful. To have something so intimate turn into something so violently obvious is its own reward. A star cluster on your neck, my own personal constellations, mapped out for everyone to see. There’s a galaxy right there, and each little dot, each burst blood vessel, bears my signature. 

I know it’s silly, but I can’t help but love the way it makes you look.