Nothing is more intimate than the moment your orgasm presses against my chest, your warmth seeping into my skin, and every inch of me remembering it. I want you to watch as your essence drips down my nipples, leaving a trail I will trace with my fingers long after you’ve gone. When you come on me, I feel marked, claimed in the oldest way. I don’t wash it away right away — I let it dry, so the scent and warmth stay with me as I walk the streets of Bangkok, guarding my secret. You leave a piece of yourself on me, and I accept it as a gift, as a promise, as proof that you were here, that you wanted me, that you came for me. With you, you don’t just come — you leave your name on my chest. And I will wear it with pride until it fades, and even when it does — it will remain in my soul.
