Re: Second Floor
She did not run. Diamante trims on mary-janes T'd up slender feet did not spangle or jangle in jolts of fear. She was afraid, and though this cat was not hers, she understood, in a way, the volatile vovulus that writhed within the beast as if it was in her. She was not so stupid as to run. He had drawn blood and she was prey, and fuck that.
The willow'd ends of white fingers gripped the slender neck of the staircase railing and he leaned backward, against it, in a long, carefully wanton exposure of throat and breast under gilded, frosted glass beads. A smile curled on those pink lips and she regarded the man with low lids, veined as moths' wings, thin, fluttering things.
"I'm not your mouse, pussycat. I don't run from men with claws." Satin, platinum curls softly fell to the side as he tipped his head. He was free of the monster's grasp, but he was not free. He bled. "Or beasts, for that matter."
The smile on the beauty's face went feral, more suited to the Cheshire himself than her. It was entirely learned. She purred.
"I'll kick you in the fucking balls if you touch me again."