Sinnerman //H.S

13-"Indecisive"

He holds your hair up behind your head in a ponytail, watching your face and taking his time. You look so much prettier to him with your hair out of your face, especially when he's the one holding it in a fist he likes to tug a little so that you look up at him. His eyes are slightly narrowed as he looks at you, your eyelids are a little heavier than they were earlier tonight, mostly from your new found love for the pink cocktails he ordered for you. You may have had one too many, you didn't mean to though, and you know that you'll regret it in the morning when you'll have to sweat it out while you'll practice your dance routine relentlessly. You have that slight grin on your lips, he knows that if he leans in and traces the shape with the tip of his tongue you'll taste as sweet as he expects.

You notice that it's not the first time he's looked at you like that, with his lip slightly bitten and his eyes narrowed in concentration. You're not really sure what he's looking for, but you don't mind looking at him as well, with your faces so close together you like to look into his eyes because they're so bright at times it's really impossible not to stare into them. You wonder what he's thinking about, if he's trying to come up with an excuse to leave your apartment and to never see you again, if he's realizing you're not as pretty as he first thought you were, when in reality he's trying to understand why he wants to make you come so hard you forget everyone else you've ever been with, why he has this urge to know everything about you, why he wants you to be invested in him, why the way you blush or laugh or shy away from certains things makes him so hard, why he wants to make you feel things.

Because it's never happened since her, ever since he lost her, his precious Victoria, everyone else were just there to fill in the blanks on his loneliest nights, to fill in the blank pages of his sketchbooks and eventually his blank canvases, the ones he's never exposed before, the ones that lie on the floor of his art studio, face down because he doesn't want to see most of them, or sometimes covered by a white sheet. It's all an excuse really, he sees them, he imagines them on their knees for him or crying out his name and he makes it happen, they fall for his pretty face and charisma, the confidence that exudes from him, his fucking smile and just like that they're in his bed, and just like that he's painting them, and after that he never sees them again. It was the same thing with you, that's what he initially thought. But then he saw you, your face that looks so much like hers, but then he heard you and actually saw you. Your voice that sounds nothing like hers, your smile that's more sincere than hers could ever be, you're a little broken just like she was too, but in a completely different way, you smile at strangers and pretend to be more confident than you are until you're called out on it, she was a little rude and only ever smiled at a few people in her life. You've never said no to him as of now, whereas she almost always turned him down.

He sees her in you, but you're so much more different than he imagined. You're better, because you don't push him away or throw his clothes in his face, because you don't scream for no reason or tell him to go home when you don't want to see his face anymore. As of now, you're the best version of her.

After a few drinks, you were inhibited enough to talk about yourself freely, to not care about everyone else in the bar. You're pretty when you laugh, you told him about how the girls taught you how to roller skate, you told him about how you almost fell a few times and he imagined you in a tiny skirt, high socks as you danced on roller skates, your tits sitting pretty in a tight shirt. He didn't say much because he liked watching you talk, the way your lips moved with each syllable, how your tongue slightly poked out with certain words, how your lips met the thin rim of your cocktail glass, how your throat moved when you swallowed. How your nose crunched up when you tasted his whiskey, just like it did when you first took a sip of beer.

"Hey Surfer, I thought you wanted to paint tonight." You say in a hushed voice, your hand holding onto the open collar of his vest. He grins, looking down at the lines of your neck and collarbones, his tongue slipping out to wet his lower lip.