Bittersweet
At first sight she's just another pretty girl, a barely clothed beauty among dozens on the dance floor. She brushes against others on her way to nowhere in particular, multicolored lights flashing against her porcelain skin as she moves to the thunderous beat. Her clothes are the same as almost every female on the club: knee high stiletto boots, black miniskirt and skimpy tank top. One strap keeps slipping off her shoulder, and one small hand keeps pulling it back in place with deliberate indifference. The grace of the gesture distinguishes her from the rest of the girls. She's special, one of a kind, and wants everyone to know this. As usual, it works like a charm.
She ignores the many eyes set on her, the hungry mouths promising cold drinks and warm kisses; male and female hands reaching out for her. She wants only one man, the one she lost so long ago. She still misses him.
And so do I. But tonight, I'm here for her.
She and I never cared too much about each other, too busy in our constant competition for our lover‘s affections. We never thought about sharing stories over cups of tea and dead bodies around us. And yet, we share similar memories.
Sharp memories of brutal kisses and painful pleasure. The sound of his laughter still a song in our minds. A powerful weight pressing our bodies against soft mattresses or cold floors. A rain of fluttering kisses on our bare stomachs, waiting eagerly for those lips to travel lower. Our own hands gripping hair soft as silk, the color of dark chestnuts, and another pair of hands _his hands_ raising our lower bodies to his expert mouth.
But the good times are over. And the woman I'm watching now is dancing by herself. So close and yet so far away. I bet she can't feel me right now.
I leave my bottle of bear on the table and head for the dance floor. Before she knows what's going on, my hand is on her shoulder.
Sounds seems to vanish around us as she turns, dancing lights and writhing bodies going on like everything is normal. Can't they feel the electricity in the air? The power overcoming the monster they call music?
Her hair is piled on top of her head, a few loose curls framing an adorable face. I look from her green eyes to her ruby red lips, slightly parted, exposing the barely there edge of ivory. I wish she would smile for a second. She had the most lovely smile. Always for Angelus, anyway.
It's clear after a few seconds I won't be seeing the same smile. Not that I care. She was never mine to think of. Then again, he's not around.
Still no smile, but eventually an invitation appears in the corner of her eyes. Without a word, she walks past me towards the restrooms. the moments she steps out of the dance floor I can hear the music again, the spell broken. A girl takes my arm but I ignore her, tracing Darla's steps. She seems to have vanished the moment I blinked. I place a hand on the white door near the little doodle that's supposed to represent a girl. If she's there, should I follow her, maybe shock the nice girls getting high on the stalls?
Then she's next to me, her hand of mine, guiding to the darkest corner of the club. She's fast, almost faster than me. Suddenly I'm against a wall, a flight of stairs shrouding us from the humans. I can hear the pound of people's steps over my head as she kisses me, the wall trembling to the beat of the music. The ways she presses herself against me makes me clear it's just about her needs, her pleasure, her loneliness.
Two can play that game.
I spin so now she's the one with her back to the wall. My lips move from her mouth to her cheek and then to her throat, liking and nibbling at the pulsing vein. She's fed recently, her skin just a little warm under my lips. My arms capture her waist as she jumps and wraps her legs around my waist. With a growl I manage to hold her with one arm while I let a hand slid between our bodies, tracing patterns on the inside of her thigh before finding soft wet curls longing for my touch.
Darla was never one for undergarments.
My lips meet hers in a violent clash of teeth and tongues as her hands fumble with the front of my trousers. I feel the rough fabric sliding down my legs and pooling at my feet, silk boxers following. I tease her at first, my fingers exploring the moist depths that once upon a time belonged to the man that loved both of us. She digs her heels on my ass and her fingernails on my shoulders, insane with need. I break the kiss pull my fingers out and lick them slowly. She never takes her eyes off me, so her hand wrapping around my erection takes me by surprise. Her hold is firm, and her eyes are dark fire. She doesn't have to tell me anything. I let her guide me inside of her, her inner muscles closing around my cock. I close my eyes as I thrust into her, hard. The bitch enjoys the pain. Just one of many things we have in common. Did he teach her to like this too, or was she actually the teacher? Probably the latter. Doesn't really matter, right? I realize it's not about who's better at this, who gets gold medal at the Bitch Olympics. It's not even about who He loved best.
This is just mindless fucking. We don't care about each other. Without Angelus, we're just two strangers in the dark, bodies entwined to the repetitive thumb of this place's 'music'. Bodies searching for pleasure, minds drifting, probably even sharing the same memory, but not really connecting.
As a last reminder, I hear his name on her lips as she comes hard, trashing wildly against my body. I bit my lip, drawing blood as I resists to do the same when my own climax hits. It's also a way to keep myself from sinking my fangs into her neck. Even now she will never allow me that small favor.
Then she's back on her feet, hands on her hair, making sure it's still just messy enough. I tuck myself in and, without thinking, pull a handkerchief from one of my pockets and kneel at her feet, cleaning her thighs of my seed. I can feel her eyes on me as I stand, crumpling the handkerchief before putting it back in my pocket. That earns me a small grin and a hand on my cheek. For one second I forget about Angelus, wondering what if things had been different. Maybe the hand would be bolder, a kiss would follow and her eyes would lit up at the sight of me. We wouldn't be cheap substitutes, but actually mean something to each other. I could take her hand and lead her out of this place, into the cool silence of the night. I could take care of her. I could learn to love her. I could teach her to...
Suddenly she turns around and walks into the crown. I step on my badly wounded pride as I follow, ignoring the curses and threats of the people I push out of the way. Finally I find myself into front of the club entrance, her essence still fresh in the night air. The message is clear: This will never happen again.
I already knew that, of course. And yet, it doesn't make the blow less painful. Why does it have to hurt? Why does she have to open old wounds this way and then walk away unpunished?
I turned around and go back inside the club, pain turning into rage, and then turning into calculated pleasure as I scan the place. A cute blonde with a similar skimpy outfit and hair piled on top of her head sips on a Martini. So calm and cool, the whole world ahead of her. And that's about to change. I can already see her lying on the dark alley, blood drained, beauty marred by a sharp knife. Maybe a cross on her cheek as well. I might as well follow tradition.
A few seconds later I'm sliding on the stool next to her. She smiles, liking what she sees. Her eyes are not green, but brown, her lips are fuller, and I can see a hint of brown on the roots of her hair.
But I smiled back and leaned forward, inviting her to talk to me. She has such a pretty voice. I like her already.
And to think she's just the next best thing.