If the toll he has to pay to linger here means stopping for a minute before he starts up again, then it's not so bad.
"Hi."
For someone who thought he was all done with this kind of thing years and years ago, he's certainly entirely delighted with the minutiae of what makes women women and men men. He once told Faye that he was both at once and neither one, but time has made that statement into a lie. In appearance he might look like both, but that's as far as it goes... at least with her. And he can no longer claim that women aren't his style, or at least he can't do it very convincingly. Not when he wakes up in the morning with a shockingly naked lady by his side more often than not.
He's doing his level best to destroy every last label ever applied to him, and the challenge has been nothing but fun. So when she leans forward just a little, he takes it as an unspoken invitation for more, more, more, and if they enjoy one another to excess, he's certainly not going to complain. She smells like cinnamon and tastes like peaches and feels like silk and he's always had more than a healthy appreciation for luxury.
His lips meet the delicate gold chain of that ruby necklace he gave her and he wonders if she can feel his smile. If he were any good at betting, he'd bet that she can; he's not trying to hide it in the least.
Some days, every last thing about Faye seems larger than life. She's not a magazine: she's a billboard. She's not a song: she's the whole musical. She's not a girl: she's a princess. With that in mind, how can he blame himself when his arms wrap around her?
The answer is that he can't, never could, never will, and doesn't mind in the least.
"You want to hear some new music?" She's his favorite inspiration.
no subject
"Hi."
For someone who thought he was all done with this kind of thing years and years ago, he's certainly entirely delighted with the minutiae of what makes women women and men men. He once told Faye that he was both at once and neither one, but time has made that statement into a lie. In appearance he might look like both, but that's as far as it goes... at least with her. And he can no longer claim that women aren't his style, or at least he can't do it very convincingly. Not when he wakes up in the morning with a shockingly naked lady by his side more often than not.
He's doing his level best to destroy every last label ever applied to him, and the challenge has been nothing but fun. So when she leans forward just a little, he takes it as an unspoken invitation for more, more, more, and if they enjoy one another to excess, he's certainly not going to complain. She smells like cinnamon and tastes like peaches and feels like silk and he's always had more than a healthy appreciation for luxury.
His lips meet the delicate gold chain of that ruby necklace he gave her and he wonders if she can feel his smile. If he were any good at betting, he'd bet that she can; he's not trying to hide it in the least.
Some days, every last thing about Faye seems larger than life. She's not a magazine: she's a billboard. She's not a song: she's the whole musical. She's not a girl: she's a princess. With that in mind, how can he blame himself when his arms wrap around her?
The answer is that he can't, never could, never will, and doesn't mind in the least.
"You want to hear some new music?" She's his favorite inspiration.