Ellie smiled, and, with a flippant wave, headed out the door, loosening her tie as she sauntered into the sunshine. Her short brown hair did nothing to block the sun's glare, and she squinted her pale blue eyes, seeing daylight for the first time since walking into her shift twelve hours ago.
She sighed and rolled her narrow shoulders, feeling several pops as her spine realigned, and rotated her hips, feeling the tension radiating up her legs. She straightened and continued to her car, eagerness putting a spring in her step, and a small smile on her soft, full lips. She was visiting an old friend today, one she hadn't seen in several months, and was looking forward to the reunion. She was off the next day, so had no qualms about taking advantage of his hospitality, and dangerously potent weed.
As she drove, she let her mind wander, returning, as she often did, to the last time she saw Alex. They had both been embarrassingly, uproariously drunk, and, though the memories were foggy, the feel of his lips dragging up her throat and his teeth sinking into her pale skin had stayed firmly at the forefront of her mind. She had pushed him off, more reluctantly than she should have, laughing shakily to disguise her shortness of breath, with an admonishing reminder about his girlfriend, a foul-tempered shrew at the best of times.
Minutes later, she had made some poor excuse, and hastened out of his apartment, her cheeks burning, as his eyes bored into her back. She barely remembered the cab ride home, dazed by his ferocity, and her hand kept creeping up to the bruises on her neck, replaying the moment over and over. Even months after, the sharp pinch of his teeth, the feeling of helplessness and want coiling in her stomach, the press of her legs and lips together to disguise her desire were as vivid as the day they happened.
All this scrolled through her head as she sat outside his apartment complex, absentmindedly fixing her makeup. She attempted to disguise her exhaustion, but there were dark circles under her eyes, and her hair was in total disarray that no amount of combing could tame. She settled for reapplying her eyeliner and lipstick, convincing herself that she was doing it for herself, rather than the lanky brunet she couldn't seem to put out of her mind.
She sat there for a moment, stalling, and caught sight of herself in the mirror, eyes wide and cheeks flushed. She shook her head violently, trying to shake her nerves like a dog shaking off water. She would just sit far away from him. He had a girlfriend, after all, and she nodded firmly at her reflection, ignoring the dubious look she was giving herself.
Knuckles rapped against her window, causing her to jump, and her cheeks burned with embarrassment as Alex looked in at her with sardonic amusement. Still flushed, she clambered out of her car, and tripped into his tattooed arms for a hug, burying her face in his shoulder, waiting for her cheeks to cool before she pulled away.
When she did, his eyes roved over her, her form fitting white button down disheveled from her day, and coming untucked from the tight, black pants that showcased her pert ass. Ellie had noticed a distinct uptick in her tips after buying these pants and had come to relish the turn of heads as she sashayed through the small restaurant. His eyes seemed darker than she remembered but were as inscrutable as always.
"I was beginning to think you weren't going to show," he commented, gently propelling her away from her car, his long fingers overlapping on her wrist. She glanced up at him, lips pursed.
"It would have served you right, after cancelling on me the last three times."
He grinned sharply as he looked back at her, and her eyes flashed with indignation as he chuckled, a warm sound that seemed to travel down his hands, and into her wrist, spreading warmth through her body, a nexus of heat already pooling in her stomach. She tried to tug her hand away with a scowl, and his fingers tightened briefly, his eyes flaring. She tugged again, and he let her go, his hand slow to pull away from her, before ushering her inside.
"The elevator is broken, so we're going to have to take the stairs." Ellie flashed a skeptical look over her shoulder.
"Isn't this place brand new? Why do you live here, again?" He shrugged one shoulder nonchalantly.
"Honestly, it's hardly surprising the elevator broke. You know my luck. I'm actually more surprised that I wasn't inside it when it did."
On that, she had to concede. She had spent many days bemoaning his misfortune alongside him. He was a magnet for trouble, yet remained unflappably cool throughout, the circles under his brown eyes the only evidence of the strain. She would never admit it, but she was privately charmed by his apathy. He gestured to the stairwell door, a manufactured look of defeat on his face. She rolled her eyes slightly at his woebegone theatrics. It was only three floors. She brushed past him and started up the stairs.
"Well, it's been a couple of months, anything new and exciting happen?" She called over her shoulder. There was silence, and, when she turned to look, she caught him sliding his eyes guiltily away from her ass. She turned back around and grinned, fighting the urge to wiggle her hips more than was strictly necessary to get upstairs. By the third floor, she was convinced that he was attempting to burn a hole through her pants with his eyes, and a feeling of power surged through her, making her feel lightheaded, wanton, and dangerous.
She slowed behind him, his long legs easily outpacing her much shorter ones, and took stock of his thin frame, with exactly the amount of concern a good friend would have, she told herself firmly. He hadn't been eating properly, forearms sinewy against the rolled up sleeves of his plaid shirt. His normally bright eyes were deep and ringed in his gaunt face.
Regardless, his body was tightly coiled, and she knew from experience that he was much stronger, and far more dangerous, than he looked. He had once subdued a much-larger customer, a stalker that had been harrassing a coworker. Ellie had watched the entire scene, gnawing her lip, transfixed by the pull of his muscles under his skin.
A quick glance at her wrist showed the finger marks fading, and, before she could help it, an image flashed in her head of those same finger marks around her throat, on every inch of her pale skin. She nibbled at her lip and hastened to catch up. He paused at the door, his hand on the knob.
"Katie and I broke up," he mumbled. She looked at him with pity, taking in his haggard appearance and downtrodden demeanor with a new understanding.
"I'm so sorry," she murmured, rubbing his arm comfortingly. She bit her lip, wanting to say more, but he seemed content in the silence that fell. He looked at where their skin met for a long while, saying nothing. Then, finally, he sighed.
"It's probably for the best. She didn't really like you all that much, you know." With that, he pushed the door open, a slight smile curling his lips as he studied her brow, furrowed with anxiety.
"Really!" he insisted, "I feel good about it. It's been a few weeks. I got some more projects to fill the extra space."
"Oh yes, that's exactly what you need, Alex. More guitars. You fix them all up, but do you ever even play anything other than your.... Gibbous?" she hazarded a guess.
What she knew about guitars could fit on a guitar pick (she assumed) with room left over. He grinned at her, rolling his eyes, and pushed her through the door, his body angled in such a way that her ass brushed against him as she stumbled gracelessly through the doorframe.
Wow, she mused silently, he wasn't joking about the guitars. There were half-finished guitars strewn haphazardly, the living room in disarray, the scent of varnish and wood thick in the air. The sofa, it seemed, had been hastily cleared enough for two to sit together. So much for trying to keep her distance.
They settled on the cushions, his body pressed far too close to hers, and she tried to ignore the heat radiating from him. Instead, she launched into a long-winded complaint about her coworkers, bemoaning the fact that they no longer worked together, a long-standing tradition between the two of them. He chuckled and nodded along as she rambled, her hands gesticulating wildly as she picked up steam.
While she talked, he packed weed into his bong, a lethal looking glass piece that never failed to send her to space. This day proved to be no exception, as, after two hits, she flopped against the couch, grinning goofily at her longtime friend, complaints about work quite forgotten as she admired the flop of his hair into his face. He smiled indulgently back, smoke wreathing his face as he turned his attention to the TV, flicking through music stations.
She sat bolt upright, and tugged the controller from his hands, ignoring the heat from his fingers. She put on a new artist, trying once more to expand his borders past acoustics and whiny vocals. He gave her a weary look as the synthetic beats came thumping through the speakers. In return, she shot him a wide, hopeful grin, and he sighed in resignation, leaning back, head lolling on the sofa.
She perched, unsure, at the edge of the sofa, lip caught between her teeth until he plucked her from her seat, pulling her to him. She fell on him, cheeks burning, his bones digging slightly into her soft frame.
She struggled half-heartedly, then stopped, attempting to glare, the attempt ruined by her poorly stifled smile. They talked, the conversation flowing easily, as the songs ticked by, unnoticed.
As the day lengthened, Ellie felt her eyes drooping, and, quite without her permission, her head dropped to his shoulder, his collarbone digging into her forehead.
"You need to eat more," she mumbled, trying in vain to find a comfortable position. He shrugged her off, guiding her head to his lap, and idly toyed with her hair, attempting futilely to untangle it with his deft fingers. She rolled to her back and grinned up at him.
"I admire the effort, but I promise you, you're just going to make it worse." He hummed, eyes distant and unreadable, and pulled his hands free from her clutching hair, moving them instead to the bong, as her lips pursed in moue of discontent at the loss of his fingers, calloused though they were from years of plucking guitar strings.
He inhaled deeply, with practiced ease, and again. When he set the bong back down, his hands were shaking slightly. Uncharacteristic for him, she noted, her brow furrowing slightly. He studied her face, eying the worried pucker of her forehead. She bit her lip again under his surveillance, and his eyes tracked the movement.
