His lips are already bruised, the soft pink of his mouth marred by smudged red, as if every touch had left a lingering claim. His throat—once pristine—now bore the evidence of your reckless hands, your lips, your teeth. And yet, he doesn’t pull away. If anything, he leans in.

You tilt his face up with firm fingers under his jaw, pressing the deep crimson lipstick against his mouth. The color glides over his lips, a stark contrast against his flushed skin. He parts his lips slightly, breath warm against your fingertips, letting you paint him in ruin.

"More?" he asks, voice husky, raw from the night before. There’s amusement in his tone, but also something darker, something hungry. His piercing gaze watches you, heavy with want, as if waiting for you to push him further, to see how much he can take.

"You’ll ruin me at this rate," he murmurs, but there’s no hesitation—only invitation.