I'm hot blooded [Check it and see]
The stumble and fall isn’t intentional. She’d have to a)plan rather than act on instinct and impule or b) be a lot more graceful than she actually is for the move to be in any way intentional. She hisses in pain as the pavement abrades the skin off her knee, ripping through the knee of her jeans. The high kick up from her position on the ground, however, is planned. It catches the vampire in the gut and he doubles over around it. She swings up with her right hand, fingers curled around a stake. It plunges into the vampire’s heart and she’s not quick enough or agile enough to avoid the rain of ash.
Once it’s all over she’s running on one hundred percent high octane nitrous, skin tingling, nerves jumping and face flushed. Every nerve is screaming with the hormonal version of an electrical current. In LA it’s never hard to find a guy and it’s even easier when she’s weaving her way through bodies on the dance floor. There’s one leaning against the back exit, unlit cigarette dangling between his lips and she’s pretty sure from the sullen look on his face and the Adonis body he’s rocking, that he’s an aspiring actor. This is LA, everyone is an aspiring something. She grabs him by the wrist and tugs him out the back exit, bottom lip tucked between her teeth and bedroom eyes firmly fixed on him.
He doesn’t argue when she pushes up against the alley wall and shoves a condom in his hand.
“Hi, I’m Lucy,” she whispers as her mouth meets his in a violent kiss. She doesn’t give him time to tell her his name because really, she doesn’t care. She’s done this dozens of times and there’s a pattern to it all. Encounters like this push away all thought and slacks the electrical current running through her body. It burns off the adrenaline and doesn’t leave room for what she did, who she is or what could have happened. And it all happens without any emotional attachments. His hands are skirting across her ribcage, dragging her tee shirt up with it. Her hands are on his stomach and the predominant thought in her mind, which should be Oh God, fuck me now is Derek’s abs are better
After that, it’s all downhill. The guy doesn’t measure up physically or emotionally (which is something she thought she was trying to get away from!) and when she opens her eyes to look in his, she realizes he doesn’t even know what she looks like, who she is and he wouldn’t care if he did. She sighs and pushes the guy away as she pulls back.
“Something wrong, Baby?”
“Yes. Everything,” Lucy responds. She rakes her hands through her hair and shakes her head. “You don’t care how my day went. You don’t care that my knee is skinned and my jeans are ripped and I might have a bruise to go along with the scrape. You don’t care that my arm got wretched and I think I cracked something landing on it. All you care about is that I’m some hot chick who apparently wants to have sex with you. I could have an STD!”
He quirks an eyebrow at her, taking a step back from the crazy lady. “I thought that’s what the condom was for.”
Lucy rolls her eyes and turns on her heel. “So did I,” she mutters as she walks away. The guy follows after a moment, catching up to her and putting his hand on her shoulder.
“Hey, what happened?”
Lucy shrugs and sighs. “Derek Morgan sucks. That’s what happened.”
Once it’s all over she’s running on one hundred percent high octane nitrous, skin tingling, nerves jumping and face flushed. Every nerve is screaming with the hormonal version of an electrical current. In LA it’s never hard to find a guy and it’s even easier when she’s weaving her way through bodies on the dance floor. There’s one leaning against the back exit, unlit cigarette dangling between his lips and she’s pretty sure from the sullen look on his face and the Adonis body he’s rocking, that he’s an aspiring actor. This is LA, everyone is an aspiring something. She grabs him by the wrist and tugs him out the back exit, bottom lip tucked between her teeth and bedroom eyes firmly fixed on him.
He doesn’t argue when she pushes up against the alley wall and shoves a condom in his hand.
“Hi, I’m Lucy,” she whispers as her mouth meets his in a violent kiss. She doesn’t give him time to tell her his name because really, she doesn’t care. She’s done this dozens of times and there’s a pattern to it all. Encounters like this push away all thought and slacks the electrical current running through her body. It burns off the adrenaline and doesn’t leave room for what she did, who she is or what could have happened. And it all happens without any emotional attachments. His hands are skirting across her ribcage, dragging her tee shirt up with it. Her hands are on his stomach and the predominant thought in her mind, which should be Oh God, fuck me now is Derek’s abs are better
After that, it’s all downhill. The guy doesn’t measure up physically or emotionally (which is something she thought she was trying to get away from!) and when she opens her eyes to look in his, she realizes he doesn’t even know what she looks like, who she is and he wouldn’t care if he did. She sighs and pushes the guy away as she pulls back.
“Something wrong, Baby?”
“Yes. Everything,” Lucy responds. She rakes her hands through her hair and shakes her head. “You don’t care how my day went. You don’t care that my knee is skinned and my jeans are ripped and I might have a bruise to go along with the scrape. You don’t care that my arm got wretched and I think I cracked something landing on it. All you care about is that I’m some hot chick who apparently wants to have sex with you. I could have an STD!”
He quirks an eyebrow at her, taking a step back from the crazy lady. “I thought that’s what the condom was for.”
Lucy rolls her eyes and turns on her heel. “So did I,” she mutters as she walks away. The guy follows after a moment, catching up to her and putting his hand on her shoulder.
“Hey, what happened?”
Lucy shrugs and sighs. “Derek Morgan sucks. That’s what happened.”