She had beautiful lips—plump, painted, practiced. Most men made a beeline for them, eager to taste what they thought was her weakness. They didn’t realize she gave kisses easily. They were a welcome, not a surrender.
But the ones who knew—they went elsewhere.
He did.
He didn’t chase her mouth. Not at first. He let his gaze linger just a little longer than was polite, then leaned in… not to steal a kiss, but to whisper—right where her pulse beat, just below her ear.
And that’s when she felt it: the shiver, the spark, the sweet ache of being seen.
He hovered there—nose grazing the sensitive skin, breath warm, lips parted but not pressing. And when he finally kissed her, it wasn’t with hunger. It was with intention. The kind of kiss that didn’t just feel good—it undid her.
That curve beneath her ear wasn’t just skin. It was memory. It was where every old lover had missed. Where every careless hand had failed to reach. And now—his mouth there—felt like he was unlocking a door she didn’t even know was still closed.
She tilted her head back, exposed her throat, gave him space to explore what no one else had valued. And when he did it again—slower this time—her knees softened. Her breath caught.
It wasn’t about passion. It was about precision.
Because the man who kisses your lips wants attention.
But the man who kisses beneath your ear… he wants access.