To thumb the gloss from your noir lips would be to plunge into desire. To have you smeared on my fingertips would be a deep stroke propelling me away from my sole self and deeper into you. Your indignant glare burrows through me as my hand inches closer, my fantasies of your skin heightening to climax as I first graze your skin. My eyes close. I take in a quick, shallow breath, and exhale with a groan which speaks of my longing and aggravation. With gradual intensity, my nails bear into you, leaving a trail of pink and crimson until I feel an alien smoothness molded onto your skin. My eyes flit up to yours and I coyly coo, "Latex." I yank it down in a single jolt of my arm. "You'll taste of latex and salt." I hold your elbow straight and grab your wrist. I lick the pit of your elbow while staring up at you. I thumb my lips, smearing them in black. "Disgusting." I run both of my hands over your forearms, smiling at the baby hairs before caressing your shoulders. I stand on my tiptoes, planting soft, dry kisses on your right shoulder leading along your jugular and stopping at your tensing jaw. I pull away, if just for a moment, looking searchingly into your doe eyes before grabbing a fistful of your hair and forcing your lips onto me.