When His Mouth Spoke Lies, But His Hands Told the Truth

She always knew he wasn’t honest. His words dripped sweetness that turned sour by morning. But that night, under Lagos’ sweaty midnight sky, she didn’t care about honesty — she just wanted him to lie to her one last time, with his hands pressed against her truth.

The hotel room smelled of cheap gin and secrets nobody would dare confess in daylight. She sat on the edge of the bed, her dress hanging half-off her shoulder, her heartbeat louder than the ceiling fan creaking above. He stood by the window, silhouette sharp against the neon lights — a man full of half-promises and untamed hunger.

“Tell me you love me,” she whispered, voice trembling between pride and need.
He didn’t answer with his mouth — instead, he crossed the room, knelt, and kissed her knee. Slow, hungry. His fingers traced the bruises he’d left the last time, a secret language that said I’m sorry, but I’ll do it again.

By the time his lips reached her inner thigh, her mind was already lost — a dizzy, messy confession she would never tell her friends. His lies tasted sweeter on her skin than any truth ever did in her ears.

And when he pulled her closer, mouth grazing places only the night would know, she realized — sometimes you don’t crave honesty. Sometimes, you crave the lie that makes you feel alive.

When morning comes, he’ll vanish. So will his promises. But tonight, his hands are real. His mouth is real. And her moans are louder than her regrets.

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