“It doesn't hurt,” she protests, not wanting him to think she'd martyr herself just to make him happy. Because he'd hate that. “It itches a little.” And won't stay put, and that's probably why she's been subtly fidgeting all night. The marks on her chest look like the ones her jeans leave on her hips when she wears those super tight ones that have been trendy lately. The kind she won't stop wearing but always complains about.
Sexy, though, that was the goal, not cute, not pretty, not beautiful, which can be and often is asexual; she wanted to look like a girl in a magazine, like a film star. The spirit of Marilyn Monroe. And, yes, like a girl in an advertisement, the ones for Playtex, Topaz.
She takes his hand and pulls it towards her face, runs his fingers against her lips. “That's what I wanted, I wanted to look, you know. I know it matters to you. Not in a bad way,” she hastens to add. “It's just that I like it when you look at me.” Specifically when he looks at her like that: like she's something precious and otherworldly.