bitterness is thick like blood and cold as a wind sea breeze
if you must drink of me, take of me what you please
She was a tsunami trapped in those meek brown eyes and he only had to brush against the edges of her before she explodes into a dazzling array of color. He wonders if she recognizes the beauty of her, the power of her, the kaleidoscope of emotions constantly simmering beneath the surface—a vibrant, vivid emotion he has only ever felt around her. She groans in her throat and his hold on her tightens, surprised by the way it pulls at his lower belly, at the hunger she ignites in a heart that usually feels so hollow.
When she lifts her chin, exposing her throat, he doesn’t hesitate. His stubbled mouth trails from her painted lips, to her jawline, teeth grabbing the sensitive part of her earlobe before trailing down her neck. His mouth is greedy as he bends his head, tasting the sweet flesh and the scent that is all her.
The doors open and patrons from inside pour out but he pays no attention to their drunken banter. He is lost in the world that is her. Her hand finds its way under his shirt and he growls in response, his own grip finding her waist and hosting her up, pressing her back against the wall and letting her legs wrap around his waist. One calloused palm runs up her exposed thigh before it traces its way back up the side of her body, finally coming to a rest as it cradles her face, the kiss deepening until he nearly drowns in it.
It was like an electric shock to the heart.
He can feel his pulse racing, skin heating, and it’s completely alien—wholly different—and he is nearly drunk on it. More intoxicated than the whiskey has ever made him. “Wallace,” her name is soft on his tongue as he whispers into her, the edges of it dark and tangled and lost, as lost as him. “Wallace,” he repeats it again, pulling her head down to his, her dark hair curtaining around his vision.
She tastes like cinnamon and liquor and his stomach muscles clench.
He breaks the kiss for a moment, still holding her against the wall, his arms trembling with the effort it takes to keep himself in check. He bends his head, pressing her forehead into the crook of her neck, against her chest. He breathes her in deep, breathing ragged. “I lose control around you,” his voice is low, teeth gritted, his left hand holding her right leg in place. He opens his mouth again but instead he leans up, tilting his head back, something wicked in his emerald eyes. “So next move is on you.”
His left hand remains on her thigh, his right on her waist.
“The ball is in your court, Wallace.”
woolf
I am loathed to say it's the devil's taste
