AN: It is Friday. I think we deserve a treat, yes? :) Happy 3rd Castleversary to all of us!

#8: Torn To Pieces

Her beauty is what dreams are made of. What tragedies are written about. What poets spend their lives trying to capture in flawless heartfelt compositions, never to be satisfied in the face of such perfection. Her smile is an effervescent well, bathing him with delight, joy, rapture, each moment that he is granted near her, every time it bubbles over its rim.

He will never tire of watching her.

He stares at her long graceful fingers as she pinches off another portion of the brownie. Follows the piece with his eyes as she brings it toward her mouth while she scans the headlines of the paper on the table in front of her. Head bent slightly forward, her shimmering sun-kissed curls cascade down her back, tumble along the outline of her face, her dark eyelashes casting shadows onto the high rim of her cheekbones.

She is so unassumingly beautiful and he can't stop the heavy thump of his heartbeat against his ribs, the rush of heat to his head; can barely breathe.

Her lips close around the piece of brownie and the fingertips that hold it, and his heart lurches, his mouth dry as she sucks the remaining traces of chocolate off her fingertips, the glistening rosy flesh curved enticingly around the digits until she frees them with a soft plop.

His lungs quiver, gasp for oxygen, and he grabs for his coffee, clumsy hands bumping against the handle of the cup, rattling it against its saucer.

Her lashes flutter upwards, her eyes focusing on him, a shimmering mélange of hazel and moss, a forest bathed in morning sunlight. She smiles, a teasing lilt dancing joyfully along the corners of her mouth.

She knows that he was watching her; knows what she is doing to him.

Her tongue peeks out; she curves it over her lower lip, licks away a few brownie crumbles, and the flames are licking along his veins, hot and consuming. The enticing spark in her eyes is unmistakable and so he shifts forward in his seat perpendicular to hers, his knees bearing against her thigh under the small table of the quaint coffee shop, pressure points against her skin, her heat seeping through the thin cotton of her slacks and right into his bloodstream.

"Good?" He questions, his voice low and raw, tilting his head toward the brownie, his eyes never leaving hers.

She nods, pinches off another chunk of brownie with her fingers, holds it out to him.

"You should try it." There's challenge in her voice, the sparkle of temptation in her eyes, dark and luring.

They are playing with fire, and they both know it.

But she asked to meet him for coffee this morning - on her day off. It appears that it is time to rake the flames.

He grasps his fingers around her wrist, pulls her hand close to his face. Her eyes widen, surprised, expectant. Keeping his gaze steadily on her, he wraps his mouth around the chunk of chocolaty batter, envelops her fingers with his lips. With his tongue he slides the bite off her fingertips and her eyes flutter, a slight blush dusting her cheeks.

The chocolate is rich and dark, dancing along his taste buds; the flavor of her skin sets off sparks behind his eyes, in his veins. He sucks on her fingers, cleaning away the last traces of chocolate, and her chest rises and falls with her rapid breathing; she sways forward a little.

When he releases her hand it falls listlessly to the table; her mouth is slack. She is staring at his lips, shifts in her seat.

He wraps one leg around hers, trapping her to him and she swallows visibly; shivers when he traces his hand along her waist until his fingers are dipped into the grooves of her spine.

She tilts toward him, pointing at his lip.

"You've got…" Her voice almost soundless. Eyes hazy, unfocused; her mouth so close that her warm breath tickles his upper lip.

"…chocolate," she whispers and then her lips sip at the left corner of his mouth. She slides her tongue along the outline, cleaning away the sweet remnant supposedly stuck to his skin. His mind goes blank, his fingers digging into her spine. A gust of breath flutters from her mouth at his touch, hot and moist.

"…there…" Sucking the other side of his lip between hers, nipping, laving her tongue along the flesh. He groans, his insides a hot fizzing well of need; he wants to grab her, haul her onto his lap but the edge of the table keeps them frustratingly apart. He rakes his other hand through her hair, his palm cradling her head. Keeping her close, tilting her forward. Keeping her.

She draws the shape of his mouth with her tongue, traveling along his lips until she is centered with him, exchanging aching breaths through open, yearning mouths.

"…and there." She delves into his mouth then, her tongue seeking his in bold strokes, deep and needy and longing, and he meets her with the same desperation, explores the recesses of her mouth; she tastes like chocolate and coffee and woman, full-blooded and strong and exquisite, and he aches for her, wants her only more, always more. He sucks on her lips, nibbles the pliable skin, and she gasps, digs her nails into the skin of his neck.

Someone clears his throat nearby and they jump apart like teenagers being caught making out under the bleachers; their heads jerk toward the sound. A young waiter is standing by their corner booth, trying to be discreet, blushing a furious red.

He had completely forgotten that they were in public.

"Will that be all for you today?" The young man squeaks out the words.

She catches herself first, directs her glorious smile at him, wide, with teeth, her eyes sparkling playfully. He didn't think the waiter could turn any deeper shade of red, but he does. He can't blame the boy.

"We'll take another brownie, please," she orders. Still smiling at the waiter, she reaches back under the table, squeezes the top of his thigh.

"To go."

End of Scene

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