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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Romance  |  House: Booksie Classic


She's got clumsy fingers.

Submitted: October 24, 2017

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Submitted: October 24, 2017

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A A A


She’s got clumsy fingers. 

They’re fluttering down my collarbone, grasping a little bit, fingernails that are bitten and a little bit dirty leaving minuscule scratches on my skin. She’s tearing me open, literally, but I don’t even feel it as I stare at her, her blown up pupils and the wasted smile on her face.

She used to have lips the colour of dutch tulips, but now they’re dirty and bruised, her lipstick smeared around her mouth, tinging her skin with redness, no, not the colour of passion, the colour of a dying ember as it lets out one last shriek for fire before it extinguishes, gone to the world. 

She pauses, sat on top of me, heat radiating from her bare legs through my jeans, and with a giggle she shushes me, reaching out.

Her fingers close around the neck of a bottle of vodka, one that she kept stashed away for days, without even taking a sip.

But now, she hasn’t been sober for days. 

There’s vodka trickling down her chin as she slams the glass bottle back down on my bedside table, the one I’ve sat at so many times. It sneaks down her chest, and like a reflex, I lean forward, letting my tongue catch all of the bitter droplets, letting them burn down my throat. 

Her hands tighten in my hair, a shudder erupting from her swollen lips as she leans into me.

I don’t smile, although fireworks are lighting up my brain, instead letting my mouth drift away from her chest. I lie back, my pillows pressing into my tensed back, and meet her gaze.

It’s glazed, pupils blown up, two dark voids that are screaming out at me. The faintest tinge of green is visible around the circumference, desperately trying to contract the black circles that are suffocating them. 

She cuts off my thought process by kissing me, and although I don’t know how to kiss, I try my best, moving my lips against hers. 

She’s got the body language of a wild animal, but keeps the kiss gentle, guiding me through it with her lips. 

Her tongue sweeps against my bottom lip and I’m blinded for a second, eyes flying open, and now I can see why people keep their eyes closed when they kiss, because all I see are blurs of skin. 

Her chest is heaving as she moves away from me and shuffles down. I groan at the friction, but we’re not quite there yet; her lips are on my neck, tongue swirling, and she’s working her way down.

My hands are fisted in my quilt, my expression completely closed down, but I can’t stop the little whine that escapes my lips when she moves a little lower, her teeth catching my skin in a playfully sexy gesture. 

I open my mouth to speak, but my mouth is too dry; my bottle of water is all the way across the room, and I don’t think she’d appreciate me asking for it. 

I let hot flushes overcome my entire body for a few more minutes, and then reach over her head, careful not to catch any dark strands, grabbing the vodka bottle.

Half of it spills down my chin, and I’m lying if I say I don’t feel like a four year old with a juice cup, my eyes watering as I suppress a cough. 

She’s leant back on her legs now, still sat on top of me, but she’s watching me again, watching my hands as they disturb the enclosed liquid in the bottle, before she prises it from my fingers and takes a long swig.

Neither of us are expecting the knock on my bedroom door, and she rolls off me, onto the floor, only wearing a pair of black panties and still clutching the bottle. 

I put my shirt back on in a split second, the fact that it’s inside out completely escaping my notice, and run to the door, dizzy from the sudden adrenaline overtaking me. 

A short conversation later, and I’m slamming it closed, my cheeks flushed.

She’s still lay on the floor when I turn around, laughter trapped in her mouth, a drunken smile tilting broken lips upwards. 


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