Her stained red lips and the taste of dry gin; he never stood a chance.
How a man who paraded his ego upon broad shoulders, was now a feeble lamb cloaked in the fabric of his bed sheets; beside him, a slender figure’s hurried hands laced themselves within the fabric of her clothing, insisting on dispersing from the very room the pair had explored.
This was a mistake; she had muttered, the words seething from her lips like minuscule weapons, grazing at the bravado of someone who was entangled in a monumental disorder. He had heard it all; the venomous words of the distasteful reminder - a man, who she believed to share similar qualities with the one who had cradled her so recently, was none other than the villain who sculpted her heart between his grasp and shattered it with careless palms.
Now, here a rugged figure reposed, reaping the withdrawals of a woman who looked at him as if he were a savage animal; his knotted brows urging the words from his throat to plead her to stay. He never meant for this; he never meant for their lips to meet, nor his calloused hands to feel the silk of her flesh underneath the clothes she wore; but, he had - and he would have done so again.
He could apologise; but when did a man such as he apologise when his heart was in the firing line? With that, refusing to bat a weakened eye, his unclothed torso heaved itself from the bed before them; words slipping from his lips with nothing other than a pipe-dream.
“Aren’t you going to stay with me?”