[The wet sound of their kiss parting is enough for her to come back to herself, her heart skipping in her throat, speeding like an uncontrollable locomotive with his face so near to her own, still leaning heavily over her. Hot tears spill over, her breath catching a little when he meets her gaze so directly, humiliated to death that her face is smeared with tears, during what is supposed to be a heartfelt moment.]
It's just—
[She attempts a smile, but the weak effort is ruined by her bottom lip trembling: a telltale sign of being close to bursting into tears. How can she explain, without sounding like a petty child? How could he ever know, that she is frightened, awfully frightened, of being nothing more than a scarlet woman to him? The things she wants from him—love, devotion, protection—are all impossible dreams, which he couldn't possibly provide for her, a girl he just met, after all. Worst of all, what if this union is little more than temptation and impulse, a hollow carnality, borne from out of the haze of liquor and cigarettes? Surely it is, or so sound logic would claim: she is fragile and lonely, and he is just sating a physical hunger.
But, when he touches her so carefully, his moment of wild abandon replaced by utmost tenderness—when he speaks with such sweetness, feeling concern (which he is neither obligated nor pressured to feel, and indeed, many men would not even bother with asking) over her wretched state, she thinks that, perhaps, she might be seeing the best of him. And that, for however much her jaded heart tries to warn her otherwise, he cares for her.
She dares to hope it may be true.]
Just—
[And if he does care for her, how far is she willing to let him carry on their taboo coupling? Another kiss? A secret rendezvous, after tonight? An entire affair, conducted in secret? To the bedroom of a hotel? She is shocked at her own audacious thoughts, giving a little startle. She wouldn't even entertain such scandalous thoughts if these were usual circumstances, if she hadn't already drank a fair amount!
But he is certainly not usual, is he? Not if he has already enchanted her, not if this is blossoming into something deeper than a fanciful whim.]
no subject
It's just—
[She attempts a smile, but the weak effort is ruined by her bottom lip trembling: a telltale sign of being close to bursting into tears. How can she explain, without sounding like a petty child? How could he ever know, that she is frightened, awfully frightened, of being nothing more than a scarlet woman to him? The things she wants from him—love, devotion, protection—are all impossible dreams, which he couldn't possibly provide for her, a girl he just met, after all. Worst of all, what if this union is little more than temptation and impulse, a hollow carnality, borne from out of the haze of liquor and cigarettes? Surely it is, or so sound logic would claim: she is fragile and lonely, and he is just sating a physical hunger.
But, when he touches her so carefully, his moment of wild abandon replaced by utmost tenderness—when he speaks with such sweetness, feeling concern (which he is neither obligated nor pressured to feel, and indeed, many men would not even bother with asking) over her wretched state, she thinks that, perhaps, she might be seeing the best of him. And that, for however much her jaded heart tries to warn her otherwise, he cares for her.
She dares to hope it may be true.]
Just—
[And if he does care for her, how far is she willing to let him carry on their taboo coupling? Another kiss? A secret rendezvous, after tonight? An entire affair, conducted in secret? To the bedroom of a hotel? She is shocked at her own audacious thoughts, giving a little startle. She wouldn't even entertain such scandalous thoughts if these were usual circumstances, if she hadn't already drank a fair amount!
But he is certainly not usual, is he? Not if he has already enchanted her, not if this is blossoming into something deeper than a fanciful whim.]
I've just—never had such a kiss.