Sometimes, pretending was all that mattered, and she liked to pretend to be in control, to have the upper hand. But she knew as his hands swept over her body, touching her like glass, and hot, tender lips pressing against hers, and her breasts—she knew that it was pretend. Not real. Like the picture frames capturing a single moment, fake and made of glass that hid so much more, so much deceit and unspoken words. Just a single, perfect moment shown—frozen there, and true but untrue.
And she knew she was just like that.
She knew as she imagined different hands clench her breasts instead of these smooth, poisoned ones, and different, matching eyes gently caressing the sight of her, bare before him, and darker hair rest against her skin. Shorter, darker, more beautiful.
And all she knew was lust.
Because she hadn't gotten the chance before. She hadn't been touched—hadn't felt—ever by him, and she wanted him so badly, all the time, and now he was dead. Gone. And she wondered—had she ever really changed? His hips fitting against hers tangibly, the sweat—the touch that was almost perfect. Hadn't she used that Vessalius the same way? And sometimes, she could close her eyes, and pretend, all over again—for a moment—and it would be perfect.
Until she heard the voice that was different.
And she wondered—really, wondered—was her name only Lotti because she could never be the woman she wanted to be so desperately? The name he called her—Charlotte—it had been changed, replaced, by another, whom she used, ruthlessly. And now again. The tongue touched there, and she moaned, and pressed against him harder, and she was just using another person again.
And she knew, it was wrong, even if he also was only using her.
"Lotti, you're not like the rest of them," he breathed against the tip of her breast, and she shuddered, hands clinging to his hair, bringing him closer. "You won't be mine," he said, "ever," and his other hand lowered down her back, trailing, exploring, "just as I won't be yours."
She gasped as his hand groped her—violently but gently—and her legs wrapped around him, because she wanted to be closer, as close as possible, she wanted him to fit. Fit like she knew his body would—against her—but she knew it was not possible, as he caressed her entrance, fingers floating, ravishing there.
"So different, from them all," he whispered, trailing lips down her jaw, breath—tinging. "Never lying." As he was two places at once. "You've never tried to pretend to me."
It made her angry, so angry, because it was a lie—it was all a game, a pretend game—and he didn't know anything. She moaned, as his fingers penetrated, and his lips sank over hers, muffling the noise, sucking, and he was two places at once. Two people at once. And she couldn't bear it any longer. "Just—just fuck," she cursed and pushed him against the mattress.
She sank into him with ease, and started the rhythm, and licked his hand that she pressed against her face, and it tasted not right, not like that other one she used, not like anyone she used, and she could search her whole life, and nothing would be right. Because only one could own her, and she would know right when she tasted that one—never.
She pretended, but really—it never mattered—because she was like glass, and so easily broken. One tongue, simple, against there again, and she was gone, and he was on top again, as they had started. She cried out—a name, a different name—all at once, as she shook, sweat clinging to her hair, his or hers or both. And he said not her name but a moan, and they both collapsed against the mattress, breathing into each other, still attached.
And she wanted it over, but with him, it never was.
"I like you," he said.
His breath skimmed the top of her hair. Her body clung closer.
"I like you because, you'll never like me. Loyal—determined—but not for me, Lotti." His hand stroked her back, rubbing, floating, and she shivered. "I love you, because you'll never love me."
Angrily, she grabbed his hand, and pushed it away. She rose from the sheets, and backed away, and he smiled eerily at her, because he knew what she was thinking. He knew that she hated facing the truth. That all they were doing—using each other—because they couldn't have that someone else. And she hated thinking of herself like this—naked and bare and exposed, betraying the man she truly loved, because she'd never have him.
"At least Jack had the courtesy to stay silent afterward," she seethed.
She grabbed her clothes, and left.
And all it was, and she knew—the moment like glass, hiding the inevitable face of her return—to use him, all of them, all over again.