A/N : A hot one by Sunny (rainblows)! 333
Her back hits the wall with a soft thud and she gasps. Her fingers dig into the skin at the base of his neck and she holds on tight. There will be marks there later, she thinks. Little half-moons that won't completely disappear for days. She will have branded him. (Again.)
"Sorry," he breathes into her right ear. His hand doesn't stop its descent down her leg. (He's not sorry.)
"No. You're not." It isn't an accusation; it's a fact. He's never sorry anymore.
"We can't keep doing this," she pants, but his fingers are under her skirt now and suddenly she can't remember why they should stop. She tells herself she will do better to remember next time. (Because she knows there will be a next time. There always is.)
She sucks his lower lip into her mouth and bites down. Hard. He pulls back and studies her with a look she hasn't seen in weeks. (Since they've been divorced for nearly a year now, she thinks it should be longer. It isn't.)
"That hurt?" she asks, no trace of remorse in her voice. She isn't sorry. She never is (anymore).
"No." He shakes his head. He's lying, she knows. She can taste his blood in her mouth.
She swallows and leans in to lick the side of his neck. Her lips and teeth and tongue move against his skin when she speaks.
"Sorry."
(They never have been able to stop hurting each other.)