He didn't speak until after a good portion of his beer was gone but even as he drank he felt her watching him. He could feel her eyes burning holes into his body and he knew that she was hating it. He knew her well enough to know the self-loathing she felt, the reluctance and regret, but he also knew her well enough to know she was looking at him not out of spite but out of desire. So when he finally shifted his eyes back to her it was with a rakish grin, lopsided and crooked and just how she remembered.
"I think maybe I should go." She was close enough to the door that she could reach back and grab the handle but even as she said she should leave there was no action to support it. And he took that opportunity, the moment of silence to run his eyes along her form, appreciating and appraising.
Her hair was mussed and her chest was flushed and her lips were swollen. Every inch of her was a reminder of the moment they shared in that shitty dive bar bathroom. If she saw herself in the mirror she'd think she looked a mess but he would disagree. He liked seeing her like this. Not the perfect drone she presented to the rest of the world.
"You look beautiful, you know." His voice was honey whiskey, sweet and spicy, crackling with flames from the hearth. It was throaty and masculine and despite its warmth she felt a chill run down her spine as her weight shifted from one foot to the other.
"I probably look ridiculous." Standing there wracked with uncertainty, discomfort rolling off of her.
She liked to hide her insecurity and she succeeded more often than not but with him it spilled out of her like a dam breaking.
He didn't respond, didn't try to. He chugged down the rest of his beer and stepped out of the kitchen. She knew he was coming for her and her body tensed but she still didn't move; she still couldn't move. The look in his eyes pierced her, struck an arrow straight through her foot so that she was bound to that exact spot. And when he was standing in front of her after what felt like hours the breath she drew in was ragged, falling in time with his rough fingertips tracing down the length of her throat.
"I should go." She said it again but it went unacknowledged.
He wasn't focused on her words he was focused on the way his touch left a trail of goose bumps along her skin. Everywhere he touched he could see the ripple effects follow behind, pores constricting and raising, soft down hairs standing tall. The tip of his finger was like wind blowing over still water and he let that wind blow over her. He started at her throat, moved down to the hollow of her collar, traced up and along the bone before those touches brushed over her exposed chest, the tops of her breasts.
He liked the way they rose and fell; he liked seeing her lungs fill with air; he liked knowing he was the reason that pattern was becoming uneven and sporadic.
She, on the other hand, couldn't focus on anything but the feeling of him touching her and the way his lips parted while he focused. Those thick lips, pouty even, parting in his excitement. His fingers were painting pictures on her skin and she could see his tongue dancing behind his teeth, wrought restless with anticipation. She pleaded with a higher power for a glimpse of it, to see it so that she could remember what it tasted like, but she didn't have to wait long for her wish to be granted.
The moment his tongue came out from its hiding place, the moment it swept over his lower lip, her breath caught and his fingers stopped moving. The trance was broken but when he lifted his eyes to hers she knew without a doubt that this was just the beginning.
"You're not going anywhere." It was an observation as much as it was a demand and the sound of his voice, the low breathy rasp of it, sent electric jolts up through the arches of her feet. Her fingers curled against her palms, her lips parted in kind, and they both knew that he had her.
He always had her, no matter how badly she tried to resist it.
