If Jawbone had been a poet, she could have written a thousand words about Miss Hazel.
Oh, Miss Hazel. She was lace and black silk, red lipstick on a white shirt collar, rose liqueur in a five-foot-seven bottle, full of curves and sweetness that stuck to your tongue.
When she stood at the foot of your bed, you knew you were stuck. She’d touch your chest, your neck with those kitten claws of hers and she left sweet little barbs that you’d never want to shake off. She got you when she hovered above, her hips wrapped in leather, when she was buried deep inside you and you felt like you could rupture from the pleasure of it all. She smelled like roses when you leaned in, sex when she guided you between her thighs with a sphinx’s covered grin. She left long marks along your back, on your shoulders, red-kissed bites along every edge of you.
When you saw her in the morning, her perfect hair all un-perfect and her face bare, that was when you knew she had you, body and soul. When she reached over, her whole body purring, and touched your cheek, you knew she was the only drug you’d ever need. Not a drop of alcohol could touch your tongue for the rest of your life and you’d be content, for Miss Hazel filled up your senses more than any booze could. She kissed you, laid her head on your chest like you were everything and more to her.
There was no one in the world like Miss Hazel. Thousands of long, lonely miles and you’d never meet a girl like her. Her shadow stretched out and blocked out the harsh sun. Her kiss was cool water, her skin was a warm bed after a long, aching day.
But Jawbone was no poet. No, ma’am.
