Re: VIP Area
As she waited for him, all she could think of was how he sounded on that table, that please, the begging and the way his body strained toward her, as if she was a magnet that he couldn't resist. She knew that feeling; she felt it every single time he was in the same room as her, and she'd felt it since the night she met him in a dark alley that neither of them were actually old enough to be in - like everything else in the world faded into a blur, like everyone else was just background noise. She had grown up believing her Maman's jaded words about love not existing, about lust being a temporary creature that only led to hurt in the end. She'd believed all that, until she'd met him. Maybe the fairy tales weren't real, the happy endings and the happily ever afters, but the feelings were. That all-encompassing burn for another person, not being able to breathe without them, willing to give every last thing to crawl into them and never leave. All of that was true, even if it came with more fear and hurt than she thought she could bear sometimes.
She was reaching for him by the time she saw him, her gaze moving up and down his black-clad form, her lips damp from her tongue and swollen from her teeth. She stared as he moved forward, the past month feeling like years and years of space between them. She reached out before her fingers could even touch him, giving up the unforgiving stone at her back for that coax and crook of fingers, that impatient begging that came without words, a demand in her fingertips, a claim in her gray eyes. There wasn't any question in her gaze, no request for permission. There was only a demand, possessive: Come here and let me touch you.
She shoved at the suit jacket he wore as soon as he came close enough for her to touch, and she tipped her head back for his kiss, parting her lips without any need for coaxing and licking past his lips with the kind of confidence that was always a part of this with them. It was such a far cry from those kids in the meatlocker all those years ago, and she whimpered a demand into his mouth, one she expected him to understand, to grant her. She shoved the suit down his arms, impatient. "You're so beautiful," she said against his mouth. "Tell me you want me," she demanded, and it wasn't insecurity, it was the desire to hear it, to hear him say the words. "Tell me how." There, in his arms, she could forget about being scared. He wouldn't let anything happen to her if he was there, and in that (at least) she was entirely secure.