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Justin used to run his hands along her arms while she slept, along her side, her thigh. He worshipped her, he told her that every day, every time they linked hands or kissed or made love, "You're my golden goddess, you know?" and a finger on her cheekbone. He used to mold her body, push flesh away, brush her hair out till it shone, long and bright, a brilliant, gleaming, fake blonde. "Goddess," a soft breath against her stomach, and a kiss to sear it in. "Goddess," and a nibble on her earlobe, a hand shifting the tilt of her neck. At night, when she slipped off the tall heels she wore so he wouldn't get a crick looking down at her, he massaged the balls of her feet and whispered to them. "Goddess," he told her, and wiped her make-up off. "Goddess," he called her. "Goddess."
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