“What the fuck is on your lips?” She blinks quickly, and then reaches up as if I’ve told her she has a mustache. “No, I mean…” I sigh. “Is that some designer shit? Is that why it doesn’t get messed up when I’m kissing you?” “It’s Hazel Renee,” she says simply. As if that answers it. “I don’t give a fuck who it is. I want you to look debauched when I’m debauching you.”
