Bramblepoint i take my whiskey neat

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he doesn't bother masking the hunger behind his stare, doesn't soften it with charm or feigned chivalry. what for? she walks like sin and silk and speaks like she's tasted blood from both ends of a blade. it draws something feral in him, something older, more animal than man. her words are ripe, laced in something too smooth to be harmless, and when she brushes past, the air shifts, thick with her scent and the promise tucked between her hips. a helping hand, she purrs, and his jaw flexes once, slow, as if weighing the offer between his teeth. he doesn’t move right away, doesn’t give her the dignity of an eager yes. just turns his head enough for their eyes to catch in passing. you sure? his voice is low, raw, like the scrape of a whetstone across steel. i don’t do gentle. there’s a flicker of something behind his grin—not warmth, but heat. a warning dressed in want. if she knew what kind of beast she was tempting, she'd run. but she doesn’t. or worse—she does. and that’s what makes her so fucking interesting.