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      "Can you really blame me?"
      That's what his answer would be, if anyone chided him about crawling into bed with Honnete. The woman was stunning. The face of Venus and the body of Bundchen. At first glance you couldn't even tell she had a daughter that had only recently taken her first steps. A lot of women take years to work that baby weight off. But Honnete, well, it fell off of her faster than jackrabbit on Speed.
      When he came home from the war, Aramis was a different man. He'd seen things, done things in the midst of battle that bothered him somethin' bad, and he ran back into that "safe place" of his he'd created when he was fifteen and held hostage by some lunatic with a heavy hand and a twisted grin. He would hold his head high. Look down at you. And flash a million-dollar smile that would blind the sun. When he was in his "safe place," he was untouchable. Nothing ever stuck to him; he was like Teflon. Things just rolled off of his back. He'd act first and think later, something that landed him in an ocean full of hot water, but even then the burns were only superficial. He'd learned to block it out. Anything that could have hurt him in the past was immediately null and void as soon as it came into contact with his mental wall. It was the perfect escape.
       He'd been doing the "good father" thing and looking out for his brood a could of days ago when he bought that playpen. He'd set it up in the common area of the cafe so he could keep an eye on the kids and serve the customers, no problem. It was when he was ducked under the damned thing that he threw a suggestion at Honnete about pushing the reset button and giving him another shot at making her squeal. She dismissed him, of course. Told him to cut it out, that it was disgusting talk and disgusting behavior. But Aramis wasn't exactly aiming to settle on a rejection. No, he had it in his head that he was going to show this woman a fireworks freakshow, completely shatter her world into a million glittering shards and have her screaming his name into the stars. So when he pressed her for the chance, he made sure to lay it on thick. Pull out all the stops, flip out the trick ace hidden under his sleeve. And as soon as he heard the I want you spill from her lips, he lapped it up like the filthy dog he was.
      He'd had her before, of course. Adrianna was proof of that. But every so often he's be sucking hard on his cigarette filter and watching her hips sway as she walked on by him, muttering under his breath about just how tight that gorgeous little heart of hers was. He'd blow the smoke out and cloud his eyes, trying to blinding them to those mile-high legs, that hourglass waist, and the perky little pair of love pillows she'd have tucked into her bra. A lot of women lost that firmness after the baby gets to them, but hers were still perfect. Goddess above, they were perfect.
      He carried her upstairs that night. He keeps her tangled up in his arms, claiming those cherry-sweet lips with his own and drinking her in until she has to tell him to stop. She's soft and sweet, bubblegum and silk, and he wears the scratches she delivers down his back like badges of honor. Battle scars, he calls them. It doesn't take her too long to open up, and when she does, he dives right in. Mouth-to-mouth, hand-in-hand, they're swimming in that sea of blankets. When the moment arrives, it hits him so hard he's almost reeling. It's like having vertigo except you're not standing on some cliff and looking down. He knew he missed the touch of a woman. He just didn't know how much.
      A few minutes later and he's reaching for her hand but all he feels is a sweaty patch of blanket under his palm. She's gone. And then reality hits. It punches him in the face hard and fast, like the first time one catches the smell of death in the air. He tells himself he missed her hand. It's nearby, just look for it a little longer. But he sits up and looks beside him to see nothing but a pillow and a crumpled mass of sheets lying next to him. He tells himself she's in the shower, but there's no water running through those pipes. So he laughs. Because the tables have been turned this time around; that ace up his sleeve counted for nothing. He'd slammed it down on the table just to have the dealer change the rules right at the end of it all, leaving him slack-jawed and stupefied.
      Aramis the User had been used. He almost felt proud of her for it.
 Bleeding Apocalypse · Sat Mar 17, 2007 @ 07:57am · 5 Comments |
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