Author's Note: Beckett is smexy. And a jerk.
Disclaimer: Disney owns Pirates of the Caribbean. I just own this hotdog over here...
"You're not going to wear that, are you?"
Kohl-lined baby-blues turned from the porcelain face in the vanity mirror, centering intently on the figure taking shape in the vitreous glow of the fireplace; he shifted, one arm draped elegantly over the mantel as he indolently swirled the brandy in his glass.
"I like it."
"I don't." sizing her up, he took another taste of his drink. The claret satin gown made his eyes burn, a dizzying effect in contrast with pale skin that beckoned each caress and whatever else his decadent mind could conjure. It clung lovingly to the curves of her slender frame, tracing every unattainable inch of skin as it traveled down, flaring at full hips and stopping well below legs that never seemed to end. Clenching the drink tighter, he stepped away from the safety of the parlor.
"Red is not your color, I'm afraid."
Weak knees quaked beneath the gown's slick pleating, a fact of the false sense of security she made certain to carefully conceal in her Lord's presence; he didn't favor debility, especially from the likes of her.
"Perhaps you should have bought me a different dress…"
He was too close, ignorant of the inflammation his contiguity evoked and patently nonchalant as two more resolute footfalls heralded his imprudent presence at her side, one palm resting heavily over the curve of her hip.
"Perhaps." He whispered, heat burning through the fabric beneath his palm as he looked up, hedonic gaze resting on her through the looking glass, an almost pained expression blurred on the fringe of intoxication and a most insatiable vice she knew he took great satisfaction in.
"This is hardly appropriate."
Another whisper pressed her, the rustle of fabric behind her forming an excelling distraction trailing the shock of sensation now consuming her as his hand, hardly a wholesome warmth, pressed firmly against the smooth expanse of skin exposed by the backless garment. The measure was as much of a concern as it was a need, both wanton and offensive, serving up a response most worthy of her iniquitous suitor.
A deep breath, his palm rising and falling against the rapidly warming flesh of her lower back…
"Change."
"I would prefer not to." She retorted, full red lips forming every word delicately even as their reflection rippled inscrutably, distorted by the sudden movement of his hand, hot digits clamped unyielding against the side of her neck.
"Take. It. Off."
It was almost a growl, each word enunciated deliberately, harshly with lips held to her jaw line; a command that drew forth a sickening flush against her cheeks, one that bade those lips smile, a transparent kiss gracing the spot below her ear. Seizing against the mockery, she turned away from him in what should have been a simple mistake, not entirely surprised when the back of his hand connected with her face, yet ashamed with the breathy moan that escaped her lips.
He recovered her just as quickly, setting his glass aside and cupping her face, thumbs absently smoothing over the slight trickles of black that had begun to form.
"Please." He murmured gently, eyes seeking hers in an oddly chivalrous gesture that bordered on illusory virtues; he was not compassionate as his lips sought hers in that rough endearment, domination apparent with each press, drawing a defeated whimper as his body urged her against the vanity table.
"Cutler…" breaking away, she pressed at his shoulders, exhorting him to lift his hands from where they trapped her against the furniture. Instead, he eyed her coyly, head cocked to the side in disbelief, delighting in the visible chill that he knew flared at the base of her spine, fearful anticipation suspended in those tremulous orbs. Stooping for another kiss, she shook, hands falling to where his own encompassed her waist.
"What would you prefer, My Lord?"
That's my pet.
"Why, my favorite of course." Laying another chaste kiss to her forehead, he resumed his drink before retreating to the far side of the parlor, "It is going to be a long night, so I would suggest something a bit more facile."
Once he had excused himself, she obediently retrieved the desired attire from the armoire, draping the black taffeta raiment over the chair before going to inspect her appearance. Her lips remained swollen, tender where he had nipped; the thought made her lightheaded as she wiped away mussed eyeliner, smoothing her damp cheeks to repair damage beyond the superficial bruise.
Scars like these only looked as captivating when they promised so much more.
Long night indeed…