Disclaimer : I don't own anything. If I did, Smash would have at least a 3rd season.
Let's enjoy the show while we can.
Derek's always all miserable in my fanfics. Dunno why, sorry!
I hope you enjoy.
He kind of enjoys the taste of the caramel-smelling gloss that ripens her lips' natural colour. It reminds him of New York at dawn, where on 54th he was often slouched in an obscure bar after some woman he was beginning to attached to had slammed the door on him. He guesses being miserable is the state he grew accustomed to; he might even like the cynical melancholy which it provides for him to quietly drown in when the crescent of the moon is the only source of light he can perceive.
He traces the path of her body. Light shivers arise where his hand has grazed her silky skin. He wants to touch more of it, but his hand has roamed all of her. That makes him a tinge sullen. Then his hunger overwhelms him. He kisses her as violently as raw passion slits the tenderness of a young flesh, ravaging its yielding naivety. He traces her jaw and neck with his lips. They're kind of chapped, but she doesn't seem to mind; her moans fill the otherwise void room.
The morning light that splits the trees awakes him. He doesn't bother to look over or pat the side of the bed, for he knows she is gone. Any smart woman would have opted against staying in his bed. And the ones who will remain under the covers until morning are dangerous.
When he walks through his apartment, he notices she has sweeped out her presence out of the place. In his half unconscious state his mind begings to wonder if last night was not in fact a pleasant nightmare. He chuckles, sipping onto his freshly-prepared coffee. A lingering wiff of her perfume stains his nostrils, and possibly the rest of him, he figures. He thinks about taking a shower to get rid of her. But he doesn't, even though he can't think of any reason not to. Thus he leans on the kitchen island, staring out into the waking of a big city, coffee getting quite cold and nostrils filled with Dior.