I couldn't resist.
Not mine, sadly.
"You shouldn't be here," she murmured, more to the bottle of red wine clutched in her right hand than to the man standing in her kitchen.
"Says who," he replied softly, moving towards her. She was sitting on the kitchen counter in cutoff jeans and a white wife beater. Hair pulled into an impossibly short ponytail. He was now standing right beside her, hot breath tickling across her face.
"What about her," she whispered disdainfully, taking another long swig of the wine. The bottle was almost empty now, though she could barely feel the effects of the alcohol. Unless you counted the burning in her face, although that was more from the proximity of him than from the enzymes in the wine. She was glad it was dark.
"Her who," he asked, kissing her temple softly. Her breath caught in her throat at the simple touch, and it was impossibly hard to force out the next words, but she had to.
"You're imprinted," she choked out, the words hurting her as if they were tangible, caught in her throat, a corrosive acid eating away at her frail little heart.
"Maybe I don't care," he told her, his lips now making their way down the side of her face. Delicate, soft touches, making a fiery trail across her skin. She tried to take another draw of the wine, but she couldn't move. She was completely immobilized by the feelings now welling up inside of her. Feelings she had been working to damn hard to keep locked away. This wasn't fair. Swallowing hard, she found her voice again.
"Maybe I'm not worth fighting for," she said in a small voice, too softly for human ears to hear. It was true, wasn't it? No one had ever fought for her before. Why should they start now? His fingers trailed gently down her face, lovingly tucking a stray bit of inky black hair behind her ear. She shivered slightly at his touch. This wasn't real, she finally decided. 'Not real not real not real,' she chanted in her head, trying to ignore the feel of his touch, his breath, his sheer powerful presence.
"Says who," he murmured into her hair, and hushed whatever response she may have had with his lips, crushing them softly against her own. The kiss was amateurish, his lips were chapped, she tasted like red wine and cigarettes, but it was perfect. Absently, her grip relaxed and the bottle fell to the floor, breaking into shards and splattering red wine all over the clean kitchen tiles. Neither noticed, as she twined her hands around his neck and into his dirty, knotted hair. And the rest of the world fell away.
Sue was going to have a fit about the wine stains.