Exit stage left

My dress is untied, the ties wrapped around his neck as we danced in a club, my back brushing his chest.

You smell so good, he says, like vanilla and marshmallows.
Right before he bites me on the shoulder. Followed by a quick exit by yours truly to suck down a lungful of smoke, still floating on a half of a Flaming Lamborghini but not drunk enough yet to be sanguine at being chewed on.

All right, I'll behave. I'll try. But you're making it so hard, especially when you dance like that.
You're not trying at all! I yelp as his hand wraps around my hip and executes a particularly ticklish maneuver.
I am, he protests, then laughs. No, not really. But you are making it very hard. And I don't particularly want to.

Dance, he says. You know you want to. Besides, you look so sexy when you dance.

His hands inscribe circles down my arms and one taps the beat on my wrist as I trap the other to stop it from straying. Christ, I should have worn a bra.

A bite on my arm, my shoulder, breathing, very light, on the nape of my neck and around the delicate curl of my outer ear. Featherlight kisses on my clavicle. In full view of the VIP section. But my head is turned by alcohol and I am reckless with heat and caught up in pondering the Rabbit, and it seems secondary, even though the bites leave marks that last for two days.

I don't really care what happens later tonight. Right now, I'm just content to be here beside you, he says. Mmmm, I say, my phone in my hand.

In the car, he stops at the red lights and without preamble, leans over and kisses me. Never mind the pedestrian who, despite the green man glowing in his favor, stops to gape through the windshield.

I make him talk about religion after that. Just because I'm perverse that way. And to buy me time.

Right here, I say, as he pulls up outside my house, 12 hours before I fly. He sits, takes my hand, holds it, looks at me. You're a puzzle piece that just...fits. I look back, make a non-committal noise. He kisses me. I close my eyes and think of someone else, and the thought crosses my mind, "Bloody hell, if the Rabbit just let me snog him like I wanted to, none of this would be happening."

I'll miss you while you're gone, he tells me. I snort derisively.
Bollocks, I say in return. Then I get up and go.

Right lines. Wrong actor.