Wicked Games

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Hope's POV

He's too close to my face. My heart is about to erupt and I can't do anything except parting my lips to breathe better, or just breathe. His eyes won't leave my lips and I'm forced to stare at his. They're beautiful shaped just like everything in him. They're pink and smooth, begging you to taste them.

I know my cheeks are red as hell because they burn. They burn so bad I want to touch them, not to hide but assuage scarlet. Skin touches skin. His hands touch my cheeks. Now I have nowhere to look, just eyes that look at me as if they want to sink into mine.

Green, pink, red. I'm desiring lips, his lips. And he kisses me. Kent kisses me. Tender and delicate or I should say delicious lips. I've always believed that colors had a situation, mood, smell but I never descended it also has taste. I couldn't imagine pink tasting better.

Wait, is he Kent? I don't care, I want him and his lips, all over my body. His mouth is demanding, wanting to devour everything in mine and I absolutely affirm.

I'm ashamed of myself. I can't like this. I can't enjoy this. And I'm doing completely opposite. He's cupping my face and I'm holding handful of his shirt to his tiny-slutty waist. I pull him closer.

My head is spinning and his lips are on my neck, tasting me. Everything starts getting hotter, wetter, damper. Sweat and desire and lust and insanity of this moment that tells me wake up, this isn't you.

Wake up
Wake up

And that's when I wake up. I'd jump if I wouldn't be chained.

"What was happening in your dream?" Raspy voice and cocky smirk.

Shit. I was dreaming. It was goddamn dream. An illusion. Action that only happened in my head. Fuck. I don't know if I feel sorrowful or cheery that it was everything but reality.

He asked me what was happening in my dream. I don't even want to know how he knows. I think my face meets every stage of petrified/surprised/ashamed I can't tell but I feel everything. Why should I always be ashamed front of him? Right front of him?

He's cocky, smug, arrogant, self-righteous, standing arm crossed, leaning against wall, widest grin on face.

He's drunk. Of course he is. Kent got ready and left house despite my screams and threats. He just left me here with handcuffs on.

"What?" I'm not sure I said it out loud or lost in my throat.

He removes his shirt and throws away, leaving himself in undershirt. Stumbles just a little and chuckles. He approaches me, kneels and now he's too close to my face. Just like in dream. "Did you like me touching you?" Rasp, alcohol and lust made a mixture in his voice.

"How are you so sure it was you?"

His finger brushes my knee. One finger, two, three. They travel up my leg, lightly touching skin, sending indescribable electricity in my body. "It was me." My hip, waist, my arm, my shoulder, his fingers touched and didn't touch my skin but I'm already numb. "Otherwise," he puts strand of my hair aside. "Why are you blushing?"

He smiles as I flinch and aggressively back away. "I'm- I- I'm not. Remove the cuffs." I know I'm blushing.

"Which cuffs?" He laughs. Oh no.

"The ones you put on me? Can't you see them?" I don't think I'm angry anymore, I just want to cope with his drunkenness. My heart is going crazy because he won't make distance.

"I put them on you?" His eyes go wide and acts accused.

"You had great night, huh?"

"Yes."