I was dozing when the door opened some time later. I sat up with a start.
It was her, and for some reason she didn't call security on me.
Instead, she stepped in and closed the door behind her.
I took her in, let her presence wash over me, my eyes devouring her in nonconsecutive bites; her face, her legs, her hands, her lips, her feet, her eyes, her shoulders, her ankles, her chest, her neck, my eyes darting all over her like she might disappear.
Nothing I'd ever seen could touch her. She was as ravishing as she was unattainable.
So heartbreakingly lovely that I ached with it.
A familiar, gnawing pang started throbbing in my gut, and I let the pain wash over me for a moment, indulged in it.
There'd been changes since the last photos I'd seen of her. She'd colored her hair, for the part no doubt, lightened it up just a touch, but enough so that gold streaks overtook and dominated the color, making her some deep, tawny version of blonde.
She was dressed simply, outfitted for whatever scene she'd been doing in a soft white button up blouse tucked into a high-waisted, well-fitted light gray skirt. It was an almost conservative ensemble, until you took in the shoes. They were glittering ivory platform stilettos with a peep toe, and she wore them like a weapon.
I'd have bet money she'd made friends with the wardrobe person, that she'd had at least some say in those man-eater heels.
My eyes shot up to her face as her luscious mouth turned up mockingly at the corners, her fingers going to the front of her blouse, fingering the top button.
Without a word, she started to undress.
"Scarlett." Two syllables. Utter devastation.
She undid one button, and then the next, revealing silky cleavage, a lacy white bra.
"I didn't come here for this," I told her, trying my best to sound convincing.
We always said our lines, played our parts, but that didn't mean I wasn't sincere.
The problem was, no matter my intentions, when it came to her, I did not have one measly ounce of self-control.
She smiled and it was so vicious that it made me flinch. "Once again, you're a fool. What did you come here for then?" She asked the familiar question with an unfamiliar something in her voice.
Something soft, or did I just want to hear that?
Something forgiving? No, certainly I must have been imagining that.
"I wanted to ask you a question."
She'd finished unbuttoning her shirt and shrugged it off nonchalantly. Without pausing her fingers went to the front clasp of her bra, snapping it open.
My jaw went slack, my mind blank. I may have drooled.
"What was the question?" she asked, sounding so annoyed that I knew she must have asked it several times before I heard it.
But seriously, what did she expect? She was topless now, playing with her incomparable breasts while she spoke. Of course she knew what she was doing. The amused glint in her eye told me that she was messing with me and she loved the results.
And even knowing she was toying with me, even knowing she thought it was all a battle, a game of war, none of that calmed my reaction to her. None of it quelled my undying desperation for her. It never had.
Just the opposite.
Panting, I answered, "I can't concentrate on anything when you do that."
She bit her lip, her brows drawing together in a fake coy expression that I fucking ate up with a spoon. Slowly, teasingly, she inched out of her skirt. "Is this better for your concentration? What did you come here for, lover? What was your question?"
She continued to strip, so slow and languid that I could hardly stand it.
But of course that was the point. She knew what she was doing to me. She always had, at least in this.
I tugged at my collar, outright sweating now. "Jesus, you're merciless."
Her expression did something at that, something vulnerable and twisted, her smile deepening and hardening, turning both more brittle and more real. "You have no fucking idea. Now ask your question."
She was naked now, wearing nothing but her fuck me heels. Jesus, this woman and her shoe-porn would be the end of me.
I tried to ask it. I really did, but before I could get a word out, she was straddling me, every inch of her perfect, bare skin suddenly within reach of my eager hands.
Lust charged through me like a ram. I felt the sharp, sweet ache of it deep in my loins, desire so thick and acute it'd turned painful.
I'm sure she thought I would touch her breasts, her hips, her ass, her cunt, some part of her outrageously beautiful body that she'd so generously draped over mine.
I did not. Both of my trembling hands went up to cup her perfect, oh so beloved face. My voice was somehow steadier than my hands as I asked her my question. "Do you love me at least as much as you hate me?"
That was all I needed, just that small aching bit for me.
Had I kept even some tiny piece of her love?
It made me wretched to ask and worry at her answer. Even so, I had to know.
But there was no mercy in her, not today.
She smiled, a gentle smile that made me tense up more than any of her venomous ones had.
I knew her. Knew the hatred she carried around inside of her. I was familiar with it. I'd studied every angle of it. Every harsh plane, every bitter hollow, every rough edge. Like everything about her, that hatred was only at home with extremes.