Intoxicate

"Kiss me," I whisper. My mouth tastes of wine.

The night is beautiful - lights from the cafes and bars glow like a multitude of jewels, only to be reflected by the still river, making everything doubly bright, doubly beautiful.

"You're drunk," he accuses.

I set down my glass. In the almost psychedelic light, the wine looks like blood.

"No I'm not." I get up to show him, but then a wave of dizziness comes over me. I stumble a little (were my heels really that high?) only to be caught by a pair of arms, warm and strong.

"Yes you are," he says. My cheeks feel warm as I look up to him. His eyes are usually a  dark, dark brown, almost black. Tonight, they look like gold coins, shining from the bottom of a wishing well. His lips are as red as the wine, though he has not drunk any.

My heart, my stomach - and somewhere further down - aches as I look up to his face, his lips.

"Kiss me," I say again, dizzy from the wine, intoxicated by the slow throbbing between my thighs. It aches so much, I'm almost shuddering, and I can feel a moan build up from somewhere at the back of my throat. The pain is so strong it is almost a pleasure.

He doesn't move. 

"Please."

The ground seems to sway under my feet. I ignore it.

"Do you love me?" I ask. My speech feels heavy, but it is not slurred yet.

His hold on me tightens. "Yes."

"Then kiss me," I tell him for the third time. And yet, he doesn't respond.

Disappointment. Rejection. Why is he doing this? My headache could have belonged to a demon's.

The wine tells me what to then, and the ache in my body urges me on.

"I love you," I say, my lips pressed against his neck, feeling so very dizzy. My tongue licks his skin like a cat laps its milk, moving closer and close to his lips.

He just stands stiffly.

I moan - frustration, not desire - and bite his bottom lip, only to find the metallic taste of blood on my tongue a second later. He winces, ever so slightly, but otherwise he doesn't react. 

"I want you," I whisper, feeling myself press against him like the whore I am. 

He shivers - finally, a response.

"I know you want me too."

My hand strokes his face, brushing my fingers lightly on his lips. The other hand goes travels down.

There is a soft clack as his teeth snap together and his lips press into a thin line, but I feel his throat vibrate with the words he is holding back.

"Love me," I breathe.

The world is swaying; the only thing that doesn't move is him.

I wish he would move as well.

"Love me."

The wind carries the scent of cigarettes, perfumed by the scent of women and wine.

"Love me."

End

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What the heck was that?