baby tee

She plucks the cigarette out of your mouth, holding it between her perfectly manicured fingers. You sit bunched in on yourself, one leg up, holding your head, your other leg curled beneath you. The room will and perpetually smells of smoke, burn and stale. Her vanilla perfume mingling every time she plays with her hair, freshly cut shoulder length, blue black. She takes a long drag, staining the end with deep scarlet lipstick, she had just re-applied. Her face is flushed, her pants still slung lazily over the edge of the bed. Her white underwear sitting cosmically on her hips, high-cut, cheeky. She reclines back, her baby-tee bravely covering her chest, her tanned skin whispering to you once again. She looks at you, peers down with those doe-ish brown eyes, her lashes full with drug store mascara. You run your tongue over your teeth, stifling a devious smile as you reach your hand out for what was once yours. She takes another drag, leans forward on the inhale and blows the menthol air slowly in your face, she cracks a smile, adjusts her black septum piercing and seals the deal with a kiss. Cigarette transferring itself to your outstretched hand, dangling precariously. A kiss that's more than a kiss, a kiss that welcomes, that begs, that questions, and answer. She pulls away, eyes wide, opening her full colored lips. You hold the cigarette between your fingers, allowing her to inhale, hold, and exhale. She smiles, you smile, and take a long, awaited drag, watching her as you do.

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author's note:

I LOVE writing in the second person, I find it truly so fun and challenging at times, yet so rewarding. Enjoy my little bed room scene from the second person, I was craving a cigarette like you wouldn't believe.