09-23-2016, 10:40 PM
Now, Revol wasn’t exactly expecting a wicked little grin to flirt with the corner of those far too kissable lips in response to her little endearment, but that flash of dismay? Oh, honey, that’s too precious. His lips may not be suffering from an excess of wickedness, but hers are certainly beginning to, the edges quirking upwards despite her best efforts at restraining them.
Well okay. She isn’t trying that hard.
She’s about to drop some more playful banter on his poor head when he wins the fight against the side of him that would be more than happy to see where a good bit of flirting could lead. Probably she’d just let him stomp right off too, and leave it up to chance or fate or dumb luck to place him smack dab in the middle of her meandering path again tomorrow or next week or a fortnight down the road, but he doesn’t just walk away.
No. He throws up an SOS as he stalks off, a plea for help wrapped in barbs and thorns and prickers, and somehow she’s coming to find she’s a bit of a sucker for a good pric--uh, prickly attitude. And he does so have a good one.
Instead of stomping after him, chasing too hard ‘til she chases him away, she pauses and tilts her head, studying his retreating form. (Okay, and taking a moment to admire his ass as he walks away, so sue her.) She waits just long enough that he might think he’s gotten away, and then gently suggests, “Maybe that’s your problem, honey. Just maybe you ought to try it sometime.” Or try it again, because there’s something in the depth of the ice dripping from his last words that suggests it’s there to numb some very deep pain.
“It may not always go right, but it doesn’t always go wrong either.”
Well okay. She isn’t trying that hard.
She’s about to drop some more playful banter on his poor head when he wins the fight against the side of him that would be more than happy to see where a good bit of flirting could lead. Probably she’d just let him stomp right off too, and leave it up to chance or fate or dumb luck to place him smack dab in the middle of her meandering path again tomorrow or next week or a fortnight down the road, but he doesn’t just walk away.
No. He throws up an SOS as he stalks off, a plea for help wrapped in barbs and thorns and prickers, and somehow she’s coming to find she’s a bit of a sucker for a good pric--uh, prickly attitude. And he does so have a good one.
Instead of stomping after him, chasing too hard ‘til she chases him away, she pauses and tilts her head, studying his retreating form. (Okay, and taking a moment to admire his ass as he walks away, so sue her.) She waits just long enough that he might think he’s gotten away, and then gently suggests, “Maybe that’s your problem, honey. Just maybe you ought to try it sometime.” Or try it again, because there’s something in the depth of the ice dripping from his last words that suggests it’s there to numb some very deep pain.
“It may not always go right, but it doesn’t always go wrong either.”