Her Lipstick Smudged on My Collar

Ever wonder what it feels like to walk into a room and know you're about to ruin someone's day? That's me, right now, stepping into this dingy motel room off the highway, the kind of place where the carpet sticks to your heels and the air smells like cheap pine cleaner and regret. I'm not here for nostalgia, though. I'm here to settle a score. My name's Lila, and I've got a bone to pick with Ethan, the man who's waiting for me on the other side of this chipped door. He doesn't know it yet, but this interview he's so desperate for—some freelance piece about my "journey"—is gonna be the least of his worries.

Ethan and I go way back. High school sweethearts, if you can call sneaking around in the back of his dad's pickup sweet. Back when I was still figuring myself out, before the hormones, before the surgeries, before I became the woman I am now. He was the first guy to touch me, the first to make me feel seen, even if he didn't fully get it at the time. But he also walked away when things got real. Left me standing there, half-dressed in my truth, while he muttered something about needing space. Space. Like I was a goddamn continent he couldn't navigate. So yeah, I'm bitter. And yeah, I'm dressed to kill—tight red dress hugging every curve, lipstick sharp enough to cut glass. If he's gonna write about me, he's gonna remember every damn detail.

I knock once, hard, and the door swings open. There he is, Ethan, all grown up but still got that same nervous twitch in his jaw. He's in a wrinkled button-up, sleeves rolled to his elbows, looking like he hasn't slept in days. The room behind him is a mess—laptop on the bed, papers scattered, a half-empty bottle of cheap whiskey on the nightstand. He blinks at me, like he can't quite place the woman in front of him, even though he begged for this meeting.

"Lila," he says finally, voice rough. "You look... damn. Come in."

I don't smile. I step past him, letting my hip brush his just enough to make him flinch. The door clicks shut, and it's just us now, the hum of a busted AC unit filling the silence. I drop my purse on the chair, cross my arms, and lean against the wall. My chest pushes forward, the deep V of my dress showing off the work I've paid for—full, heavy curves that I know he can't ignore. His eyes flicker there, just for a second, before he forces them back to my face. Good boy. But I see the hunger. Some things don't change.

"So," I say, dragging the word out. "You wanna talk about my life for your little article. Start asking."

He clears his throat, grabs a notepad from the bed, and sits on the edge of it. I stay standing. No way I'm getting cozy with him. He starts with the basics—when did I know, how did I transition, what was the hardest part. Safe stuff. I answer, but my voice is clipped, sharp. I'm not here to be his sob story. I'm watching him, the way his fingers grip the pen too tight, the way he keeps shifting like the room's too small. And I'm feeling it too—that old pull, the way my skin remembers his hands, even after all these years. It's pissing me off, but it's there, simmering under my ribs.

About ten minutes in, he asks something stupid. "Do you ever miss... you know, the way things were? Before?"

I laugh, but it's not kind. "Before what, Ethan? Before I was me? Or before you bailed?"

His face goes red. He sets the pen down, rubs the back of his neck. "I didn't mean it like that. I just... I think about us sometimes. What we had."

What we had. Those words hit like a slap. I step closer, heels clicking on the thin carpet, until I'm looming over him. He's still sitting, looking up at me, and I can see the pulse jumping in his throat. "What we had," I say, low and slow, "was you getting scared and running. But sure, let's reminisce. Tell me what you miss most."

He swallows hard. "I miss... touching you. Knowing you."

Wrong answer. Or maybe the right one. My anger flares, but so does something else—something hot and reckless. I lean down, close enough that I can smell the whiskey on his breath, and I say, "You wanna know me now? Then stop talking."

Before he can answer, I grab his collar, yank him up, and kiss him. It's not gentle. It's teeth and spite, my lipstick probably smearing all over his mouth, but I don't care. He groans, hands coming up to grip my hips, and I feel that old rhythm kick in, like muscle memory. We know this dance. But I'm in control this time. I push him back onto the bed, straddle his lap, my dress riding up to show the lace of my thighs. His hands are on me now, sliding up my sides, thumbs brushing the swell of my chest through the fabric. I hate how good it feels. I hate that I want more.

"Thought you were here to write," I mutter against his jaw, biting just hard enough to make him hiss.

"I am," he says, voice shaky. "But fuck, Lila, I've wanted this for years."

Years. That word stings, but I'm too far gone to stop. I grind down on him, feeling the hard press of him through his jeans, and my breath catches. I'm not forgiving him. I'm using him. That's what I tell myself as I tug his shirt open, buttons popping, and drag my nails down his chest. He’s got more muscle than he used to, a little rougher around the edges, and I like it more than I should. His hands are under my dress now, squeezing my ass, pulling me tighter against him. I can feel the heat of him, the need, and it’s messing with my head.

But I'm not here for a quick fuck. I'm here to make him feel every second of what he lost. I slide off his lap, drop to my knees between his legs, and look up at him. His eyes are wide, glassy, like he can’t believe this is happening. Good. Let him be off balance. I reach for his belt, undo it slow, the metal clinking loud in the quiet room. His breath is ragged already, hands fisting the sheets. I pull his jeans down just enough, boxers too, until he’s bare in front of me. He’s thick, flushed, already leaking at the tip, and I feel a jolt of satisfaction. He’s mine to wreck right now.

"You remember how I used to do this?" I ask, voice low, dripping with venom. "Back when you couldn’t get enough?"

He nods, barely, throat working like he can’t find words. I don’t wait for him to. I lean in, lips brushing the head, tasting the salt of him, bitter and sharp on my tongue. He makes a choked sound, hips twitching, but I press a hand to his thigh, holding him still. I’m not rushing this. I take him slow, inch by inch, feeling the weight of him stretch my lips, the heat filling my mouth. It’s not just the taste—it’s the texture, smooth but ridged, the way he pulses against my tongue when I drag it along the underside. I hollow my cheeks, suck hard, and his head falls back with a low, desperate noise.

"Christ, Lila," he mutters, voice breaking. "Your mouth... it’s better than I remembered."

I pull off just long enough to smirk. "You don’t deserve it. But I’m gonna make you beg anyway."

And I do. I work him with my mouth, slow at first, teasing with flicks of my tongue, then deeper, taking him to the back of my throat until I feel that ache, that burn. My jaw’s tight, saliva slicking down my chin, but I don’t care about pretty. I want him unraveling. His hands are in my hair now, not pushing, just holding on like he’s afraid I’ll stop. I won’t. Not yet. I bob my head, setting a rhythm that’s almost cruel—fast, then slow, keeping him on edge. I can feel the tension in his thighs, the way they tremble under my hands, and I know he’s close. But I’m not letting him off that easy.

I pull back, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand, and he looks at me like I’ve just ripped the ground out from under him. "What the hell," he gasps, voice hoarse. "Don’t stop now."

"Shut up," I snap, standing up. My knees ache from the carpet, but I ignore it. I hike my dress up higher, showing off the black lace thong I’m wearing, and I see his eyes darken. I’m wet, aching, but this isn’t about me. Not yet. I climb back onto the bed, push him flat on his back, and straddle his chest this time, facing away from him. My ass is right there, inches from his face, and I feel his hands grab my hips again, rougher now.

"You wanna make up for being a coward?" I say, glancing over my shoulder. "Then kiss it better."

He doesn’t hesitate. I feel his breath first, hot against my skin through the lace, then his mouth, kissing and nipping at the curve of my ass. I shudder, hating how much I like it, how his stubble scrapes just right. He tugs the thong aside, and then it’s his tongue, hot and wet, tracing along the edge of me, teasing at my entrance. I grip the headboard, knuckles white, trying not to let out the moan building in my chest. But he’s good at this, always was, and when he pushes deeper, licking slow and deliberate, I can’t hold it in. The sound I make is raw, broken, and I feel him groan against me in response.

"Keep going," I hiss, rocking back against his face. "Make me feel something worth remembering."

He does. His tongue works me open, slick and insistent, every stroke sending a jolt through my core. It’s messy, wet, the sound of it loud in the room, and I’m losing my grip on the anger. It’s still there, but it’s tangled up with need now, with the way my body clenches around nothing, craving more. I can feel him straining beneath me, still hard, still desperate, and part of me wants to turn around and take him right there. But no. This is my game. I’m in charge.

I shift forward, pulling away from his mouth, and he lets out a frustrated grunt. I turn to look at him, his face flushed, lips shiny from me, and I can’t help it—I laugh. It’s sharp, a little mean, but it’s real. "Look at you," I say, shaking my head. "All fucked up over me. Again."

He glares, but there’s no heat in it. "You’re a goddamn tease, Lila."

"Damn right." I slide back down his body, positioning myself over him again, but this time I’m not playing. I tug my thong off completely, toss it aside, and grab him with one hand, guiding him to my entrance. But I don’t take him inside—not yet. I just rub the tip against me, slicking him up with my own heat, watching his face twist with frustration. His hands dig into my thighs, hard enough to leave marks, and I like that too.

"Tell me you’re sorry," I say, voice low, almost a growl. "For leaving. Say it."

"I’m sorry," he chokes out, eyes locked on mine. "I fucked up. I know I did."

I don’t know if I believe him, but it’s enough for now. I sink down just a little, letting the head of him push inside, stretching me slow. It burns, but it’s good, the kind of ache I’ve missed. I stop there, holding him at the edge, and lean down to kiss him again. My lipstick’s gotta be a mess by now, smeared on his collar, his mouth, but I don’t care. I bite his lower lip, tug it hard, and then I take more of him, inch by inch, until he’s buried deep.

But this isn’t about fucking. Not yet. I’m still focused on that one act, dragging it out. I pull off him completely, ignoring his protest, and go back to my knees. I take him in my mouth again, tasting myself on him now, sharp and musky, mixed with his own flavor. It’s filthy, and I love it. I suck him harder this time, faster, my hand working the base while my lips and tongue take the rest. He’s louder now, curses spilling out, hips bucking up until I pin him down again. I can feel him throbbing, the heat building, and I know he’s right there.

"Lila, I’m—" he starts, but I don’t let him finish. I pull off at the last second, watching as he spills over his own stomach, chest heaving, a mess of frustration and relief. I sit back on my heels, smirking, wiping my mouth again. He looks wrecked, and I feel a dark kind of triumph.

"You don’t get to finish easy," I say, standing up, smoothing my dress down. My own body’s screaming for release, but I’m not giving him that satisfaction. Not today. I grab my purse, sling it over my shoulder, and head for the door. He’s still lying there, catching his breath, watching me go.

I turn back just once, hand on the doorknob, and let the words cut deep.

Guess some things are worth walking away from, huh, Ethan?