His lips brush my right eye, sweeping the bruised, swollen skin. Gentle in every way, he moves over the painful flesh and lower, toward my open mouth. But he kisses around my lips, aiming for the split, keeping dedicated attention to the wound. I run my tongue over my bottom lip and taste him. He groans, but still works around the split. I do it again. This time, he's ready and slips his own tongue to meet mine. He groans louder at their meeting, pulling himself closer.
Climbing on top, he shoves a hard lump into my stomach but then rolls off just as quickly, crossing his arms behind his head. It takes me a second to realize he's not coming back. I prop myself up, staring down at him.
"You stopped."
"I'm going to want to keep going," he casts a look my way. When I don't immediately respond, he returns to staring at the ceiling.
"Don't you just kiss?"
"Not if I like it," he rolls his head to me, "besides, you need to heal."