by kai
February 2002
One day he just walked in the room and said to me, "So, what exactly do I have to do to get you to stop pretending you don't want me?"
I'd been lurking outside the bathroom while he needlessly brushed his teeth. With Tartar Control Crest, no less. As if the dead have much concern for tooth decay, let alone unsightly tartar build up.
He slung the ratty striped towel over one bare shoulder as he exited and casually wiped the lingering white foam away from the corner of his wet, wet lips.
Back to the wall, I froze mid-snipe. "I have no idea what you mean, Ezekiel."
"The hell you don't." He stepped in front of me, well-muscled arms akimbo. The top button of his tattered jeans was missing and the second had nearly slipped free of its hole. Damned distracting.
It seemed that he'd neglected to don underwear.
"Ah yes, hell," I said, struggling for calm, trying to drag my eyes away from the lush, carnal display of skin. Skin bearing my lovely blood marks. One hundred of them remaining, to be precise. "Very temperate this time of year, although I'm sure I could make some special arrangements for a very special detective. Assuming he doesn't return to work promptly. "
"Hm," he said, meditatively stroking his left nipple. Wanton asshole. "Planning to set us up in the honeymoon suite?"
My traitorous heart beat faster. "Not in your wildest dreams," I said flatly.
"No." He agreed, leaning close and caressing my face with his minty fresh breath. "In yours."
Well. Fuck me.
Finis.