"For fucks sake, look at what you did," Santana snarled. She was standing in her closet in her underwear, inspecting a black lacy dress she was holding up. "This costs more than anything you own, Smythe. More than all your fucking jackets from god-knows where. Paris or New York or where-ever.This dress is designer."
"What now?" A cool voice came from behind. Two hands snaked around her waist, she pushed them away.
"Look at this." She turned to face him, showing him the dress in her hands. Holding it up. The dress was torn at the front, the light material ripped apart, completely ruined. "You are paying for this. I don't give a shit how you're going to find 2,000 bucks by tomorrow. But you will. Sell yourself on the streets if you have to."
He rolled his eyes. "Fine. Whatever. Stop bitching." He tried to encircle her waist again. "You knowyou like the tearing, whatever it does to your clothes, it's worth it for what it does to you." He whispered in her ear, smirking. "It didn't sound like you had any problems with it last night. Remember? Or shall I help you recall what you positively screamed last ni-" He was pushed away again by her slim arms. "Fuck you."
She started sorting through a rack of clothing, with him watching her from behind appreciatively. "Never mind me. Just enjoying the view." he added. And smirked. Again.
She made a sound of annoyance. "I know I'm irresistible, but could you please get the fuck out of my closet?" She picked out a short red top and put it on. "Pervert."
"You know you love it." Sebastian said, now thoughtfully searching through the racks. "You have loads of clothes in here. Too many. Some need to be ruined, you know. Fast. Now. Right this minute."
"I would oblige, but I just lost 2,000 dollars. You're waiting until tonight, Smythe." She glared at him. "Do you know how much money is hanging in here? Not to mention good looks? You want me to walk around like this," she gestured down at herself in only a top and panties. "All the time?"
"Exactement, ma chérie." The french rolled off his lips like it was his native. He knew what that did to her.
"We're not in fucking France, Smythe. It would turn me on normally, but I. am. pissed." She stepped into a ridiculously tight pair of dark jeans, watching his expression all the while. She nodded at his blazer.
"Oh, and after my dress, I'm going to make sure that doesn't survive tonight. No wait, fuck that. I'm going to make sure you don't survive tonight." With that, she sauntered out, humming under her breath.
He watched her go in those damn jeans. Shit. His favorite pair.
The day couldn't pass fast enough.
