24
NSFWish
NSFWish
Rocking to the thump of the music and a drink in her hand, Nadine turned her head when someone touched her elbow to get her attention. She then, without thinking, withdrew her arm and recoiled. The man in question took the hint, holding up his hands in surrender and backing away with a rueful expression. He was actually fairly attractive, if not preternaturally so. An honest sort of a face, black hair down to his shoulders.
What a strange thing for her to have done.
She caught up to him in the crowd of writhing bodies, caught his arm and tugged so that he'd lean down and bring his ear close to her mouth.
"Sorry," she said, "I thought you were someone else, for a minute."
He smiled. "I'm glad I'm not him," he said back, breath tickling her ear. His voice was low and lovely, more handsome than his face.
"Yeah," she said, "me too. Wanna get a booth?" He nodded, but before he could straighten she ran a hand over his jawline, too intimate but entirely unconcerned. The faintest hint of scruff, the kind that was rough in sensitive places in all the right ways. He smiled again, his eyes dark brown.
She slid into the seat beside him, and didn't bother with the pretense of keeping any room between them. She ran her hand along his forearm until she could take his hand, turning it over to explore it like she was reading his future. Not soft, but not callused, either; he kept his nails short, but he didn't bite them; he had a scar on his index fingers that looked like a kitchen accident.
"See anything interesting?" he asked, resting his chin on her shoulder.
"You are at a crossroads," she said, running her fingertip along a random line. "You have a big choice to make, but you're conflicted. Sometimes you worry that you worry too much."
"You got all that from my hand?"
"Nope," she said easily, letting him go to pick up her drink. "That's just always what they say." He kissed the bare skin of her shoulder, and she smiled. "You got a name?"
"Jake," he said, kissing closer to her neck. "You?"
"Dean," she said, and she felt him smile against her skin. "What's your favorite bird, Jake?" He chuckled, and so did she.
"My favorite bird," he repeated thoughtfully. "Is this a trick question?"
"Nope. Just curious, is all."
"Hm. Don't really think much about birds. I don't like pigeons, I know that. Peacocks, maybe. Those are cool."
"Yeah," she agreed, "peacocks are cool."
"Was that the right answer?" he asked, and she giggled.
"There is no right answer," she said, tilting to the side for something almost resembling a playful shove, but which was more like settling into him.
"Is there a wrong answer?" he wondered, draping an arm over her shoulders.
"Ducks," she said decisively. "Ducks are assholes." He laughed. "Exceptions for mandarin ducks, but definitely not mallards."
"There are different kinds of duck?" She snorted, taking another sip of her drink. She set it back down with careful deliberation, then reached up to pull him down, press his mouth against hers. He tasted like overpriced craft beers and cinnamon gum, and she traced her fingers over the curve of his ear.
The club was closing when they walked to his apartment. He walked, and she wrapped her arms around his shoulders and her legs around his waist. Passerby assumed she was drunker than she was, and that was fine. She couldn't walk that far in her heels, and he didn't want her to take them off. Jake worked at a startup and he liked baseball and pro-wrestling, and he collected cigars as a hobby. He didn't mind if she smoked them, even if he didn't.
He offered her drinks when they got to his place, because he liked being chivalrous. He helped her out of her dress, and he watched with awestruck lust and surprising patience as she smoked a Montecristo on his dining room table in nothing but her heels. Sometimes he kissed her to taste the smoke on her tongue.
"That's a pretty nasty scar," he said against her mouth, sliding his fingertips along the lines of raised flesh.
"Adds character," she said, turning her head to wrap red lips around tobacco leaves and suck. She could feel his erection through his jeans.
"Where'd you get it?" he asked.
"Guess," she suggested, thick smoke billowing over her face.
He made an exaggerated show of thoughtfulness, turning his eyes toward the ceiling and twisting his mouth. She unbuckled his belt with her free hand, because it was cute. "Werewolf cunnilingus," he suggested, and she was so surprised she had to throw her head back to laugh, loud and unspeakably pleased. She nearly fell back against the table, but recovered herself enough to sit up and pull him closer, wrapping her legs around him.
"Yes," she said heatedly, and it was amazing how honest her passion could be when someone made her laugh. "That is exactly what happened," she said, as she reached down his pants to stroke him through thin cotton.
"You're probably sick of having to explain it," smiling as he bent low to kiss her throat. His hair fell around his face, brushed over her bare skin and made her breath catch and her blood freeze.
"I should get a sign," she agreed, focusing on gentle hands and split ends and scruff, deep breaths and the smell of cigar smoke.
"How big of a sign are we talking?" he asked, his voice so human and so male it calmed her heart. She pressed against him, buried her face in his hair to remember it as nice men and nice things.
"Good point," she said, muffled by his mane. "Maybe a tattoo," she suggested instead.
"Good idea," he said, and he used the tip of his finger to write the words on her skin like the scars were rule lines. "Werewolf... cunnilingus..." he said as he spelled it out, and she shivered with pleasure even as she laughed. She held the cigar in her teeth like an old action hero, left her hands free to reach into his pockets and find a condom.
He fucked her on his dining room table, exhaling his name with smoke, his hands on her hips leaving no marks. Again in his bed, and she toyed with his hair, caught it in her fists as she came. And in the twilight on his balcony, gripping the railing, watching the sun rise while he told her she was beautiful. He asked if he could take her picture, and he tried to leave her face out as a courtesy; she insisted that he keep it in, because she wanted him to remember it. She didn't mind if he shared. Why would she?
She took his phone to take a picture of his face, took another in a mirror of his hands on her breasts. When he went to the bathroom, she recorded a video of her saying filthy things she thought he'd like. He didn't leave for work until the afternoon, and she didn't stay long after. She liked him, so the only thing she took was a baseball jersey.
The Pacific Northwest was not complete garbage.
What a strange thing for her to have done.
long black hair around her neck like a noose
She caught up to him in the crowd of writhing bodies, caught his arm and tugged so that he'd lean down and bring his ear close to her mouth.
tall, so tall her feet don't touch the ground
"Sorry," she said, "I thought you were someone else, for a minute."
He smiled. "I'm glad I'm not him," he said back, breath tickling her ear. His voice was low and lovely, more handsome than his face.
"Yeah," she said, "me too. Wanna get a booth?" He nodded, but before he could straighten she ran a hand over his jawline, too intimate but entirely unconcerned. The faintest hint of scruff, the kind that was rough in sensitive places in all the right ways. He smiled again, his eyes dark brown.
violet eyes and cold steel and skin like porcelain
She slid into the seat beside him, and didn't bother with the pretense of keeping any room between them. She ran her hand along his forearm until she could take his hand, turning it over to explore it like she was reading his future. Not soft, but not callused, either; he kept his nails short, but he didn't bite them; he had a scar on his index fingers that looked like a kitchen accident.
"See anything interesting?" he asked, resting his chin on her shoulder.
"You are at a crossroads," she said, running her fingertip along a random line. "You have a big choice to make, but you're conflicted. Sometimes you worry that you worry too much."
"You got all that from my hand?"
talons laced with her fingers too sharp to pull away
"Nope," she said easily, letting him go to pick up her drink. "That's just always what they say." He kissed the bare skin of her shoulder, and she smiled. "You got a name?"
"Jake," he said, kissing closer to her neck. "You?"
"Dean," she said, and she felt him smile against her skin. "What's your favorite bird, Jake?" He chuckled, and so did she.
"My favorite bird," he repeated thoughtfully. "Is this a trick question?"
"Nope. Just curious, is all."
"Hm. Don't really think much about birds. I don't like pigeons, I know that. Peacocks, maybe. Those are cool."
the quiet flutter of feathers, black as oil, smelling of gunpowder and pain
"Yeah," she agreed, "peacocks are cool."
"Was that the right answer?" he asked, and she giggled.
"There is no right answer," she said, tilting to the side for something almost resembling a playful shove, but which was more like settling into him.
"Is there a wrong answer?" he wondered, draping an arm over her shoulders.
quoth the raven, poor nadine
"Ducks," she said decisively. "Ducks are assholes." He laughed. "Exceptions for mandarin ducks, but definitely not mallards."
"There are different kinds of duck?" She snorted, taking another sip of her drink. She set it back down with careful deliberation, then reached up to pull him down, press his mouth against hers. He tasted like overpriced craft beers and cinnamon gum, and she traced her fingers over the curve of his ear.
The club was closing when they walked to his apartment. He walked, and she wrapped her arms around his shoulders and her legs around his waist. Passerby assumed she was drunker than she was, and that was fine. She couldn't walk that far in her heels, and he didn't want her to take them off. Jake worked at a startup and he liked baseball and pro-wrestling, and he collected cigars as a hobby. He didn't mind if she smoked them, even if he didn't.
He offered her drinks when they got to his place, because he liked being chivalrous. He helped her out of her dress, and he watched with awestruck lust and surprising patience as she smoked a Montecristo on his dining room table in nothing but her heels. Sometimes he kissed her to taste the smoke on her tongue.
"That's a pretty nasty scar," he said against her mouth, sliding his fingertips along the lines of raised flesh.
tearing through her dress, sliding through skin until he touched her ribs and blood flowed hot over her thighs
"Adds character," she said, turning her head to wrap red lips around tobacco leaves and suck. She could feel his erection through his jeans.
"Where'd you get it?" he asked.
a new mark over the old, marked to make her remember the way it moved and moved and moved
"Guess," she suggested, thick smoke billowing over her face.
He made an exaggerated show of thoughtfulness, turning his eyes toward the ceiling and twisting his mouth. She unbuckled his belt with her free hand, because it was cute. "Werewolf cunnilingus," he suggested, and she was so surprised she had to throw her head back to laugh, loud and unspeakably pleased. She nearly fell back against the table, but recovered herself enough to sit up and pull him closer, wrapping her legs around him.
"Yes," she said heatedly, and it was amazing how honest her passion could be when someone made her laugh. "That is exactly what happened," she said, as she reached down his pants to stroke him through thin cotton.
"You're probably sick of having to explain it," smiling as he bent low to kiss her throat. His hair fell around his face, brushed over her bare skin and made her breath catch and her blood freeze.
"I should get a sign," she agreed, focusing on gentle hands and split ends and scruff, deep breaths and the smell of cigar smoke.
"How big of a sign are we talking?" he asked, his voice so human and so male it calmed her heart. She pressed against him, buried her face in his hair to remember it as nice men and nice things.
"Good point," she said, muffled by his mane. "Maybe a tattoo," she suggested instead.
"Good idea," he said, and he used the tip of his finger to write the words on her skin like the scars were rule lines. "Werewolf... cunnilingus..." he said as he spelled it out, and she shivered with pleasure even as she laughed. She held the cigar in her teeth like an old action hero, left her hands free to reach into his pockets and find a condom.
He fucked her on his dining room table, exhaling his name with smoke, his hands on her hips leaving no marks. Again in his bed, and she toyed with his hair, caught it in her fists as she came. And in the twilight on his balcony, gripping the railing, watching the sun rise while he told her she was beautiful. He asked if he could take her picture, and he tried to leave her face out as a courtesy; she insisted that he keep it in, because she wanted him to remember it. She didn't mind if he shared. Why would she?
She took his phone to take a picture of his face, took another in a mirror of his hands on her breasts. When he went to the bathroom, she recorded a video of her saying filthy things she thought he'd like. He didn't leave for work until the afternoon, and she didn't stay long after. She liked him, so the only thing she took was a baseball jersey.
The Pacific Northwest was not complete garbage.
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