Hair dripping.
Body humming with that post-orgasmic glow that leaves me feeling mean and triumphant.
For a second, I stand in front of his mirror.
Naked and bright with victory.
My reflection a wild animal.
Eyes feral.
Lips bitten red.
I press a fingertip to the glass.
Drag it down in a slow, lazy arc.
A heart blooms out of the fog.
Huge. Brazen.
Right in the center where he’ll see it next time the steam rises.
Not a careful little doodle, but something big enough to claim territory.
Just for fun I add a tiny arrow through the center.
A flourish.
He deserves that.
And then I press my lips, full and wet, above the heart.
The print is perfect.
Unmistakable.
My claim.
When he steps in tomorrow and the mirror fogs, my graffiti will come alive in the haze.
He’ll feel it.
The touch, the proof.
Someone was here.
Someone wants him.
Someone’s watching.
And knows exactly how to make him feel worshipped and wanted.
I pause to admire the chaos.
Hips cocked.
Head tilted.
