bitterness is thick like blood and cold as a wind sea breeze
if you must drink of me, take of me what you please
Woolf isn’t the type she should trust.
He knows that.
She should know that.
But she doesn’t flee or push him away, even though he can begin to feel the embers of something beneath the surface flare into life. Something like amusement touches the edges of his handsome face at the irritation that grows beneath her pretty expression, stoking the fires of her back into life steadily.
When she smirks, throwing back her own rebuttal, he chuckles. “Well, there’s the problem,” he taps the bar again, signaling for another drink, but doesn’t take his eyes off of her. “If I was the one who made it then I would know how it works and that would defeat the whole purpose behind it all.” He can smell her still from here, that faint scent now familiar and clinging to him even with this increased distance.
“But you on the other hand,” his voice trails off as his eyes sharpen on her, studying the edges of her, wishing that he could peel away the lacquer to reveal the significantly prettier girl beneath the glam. “You are something I haven’t been able to figure out just yet—and isn’t that a frustrating problem to have?”
She leans forward, pulling at his shirt, and his hand snaps up, rough fingers circling her dainty wrist. He holds it for a second, something like a challenge in his eyes when he turns her hand in his. He leans down and brushes his lips over the thin, delicate skin, teeth barely grazing. “I feel pretty alive right now,” he whispers, breath rippling over her as his bottom lip drags slightly against the skin.
He leans back up but keeps her wrist in his hand, letting the back of his hand fall against his thigh. The newest drink sits on the bar next to him, untouched, as he finds her eyes again.
“What about you, Wallace? Do you feel alive?”
woolf
I am loathed to say it's the devil's taste
