Her lips peel back in a savage smile, teeth gritted and tight, and her hand's rock-steady as it moves, slash, slick, slide, leaving red, glossy and scarlet and bright blooming over once-paler skin.
He loves watching her work like this, waiting in the shadows. There's never any hesitation; rarely any regret.
Her lips pout and smack together in a satisfied moue and stained tissue paper flutters unheeded to the floor.
And Wesley waits, naked and palpitant, for her to crawl slowly up his body, marking him at every pause, his flushed skin darkening with bruises and bites and lipstick kisses.