Makeup Makeout

Getting makeup done is my ritual—the calm before the fuck. A private half-hour where I can breathe, talk shit, stare at nothing. This time the artist was more than easy on the eyes; she met mine in the mirror and didn’t look away. Heat leapt the space between us like a struck match. Brushes hovered at my jaw, then lips, then lower—supposedly just blending, but the stroke was slow, firm, deliberate. My thigh flexed under her knee. She set the palette aside, slid two fingers between my legs, and found me already wet. The chair squeaked under me as she pushed in deeper, knuckles working, thumb circling, every stroke timed to the clock ticking toward call. I came quick, one hand gripping her wrist, lipstick still perfect, legs still spread.