He finds her leaning against a wall in the club's back alley, smoking a Djarum Black. Wordlessly, she passes it to him for a drag, then takes it back. She drops it to the ground and grinds it under the heel of her boot.
He leans in, sinks his teeth into the soft skin above her collarbone. She laughs, and her dark brown hair tickles his cheek. He trails bite marks up her neck, then licks at her jawline, over and over, holds her head in place with one hand.
She lets him tip her head up, lets him take his time. Lets him pin her wrist to the wall with his other hand. He's shorter than she is, and wiry-thin, but she can feel the strength in him as his fingers dig into the tendons that lead up to her wrist.
He blows in her ear, teasingly. Kisses her deep while he threads his fingers into her hair and pulls back gently, gently, gently. Folds her hand into the small of her back and cradles her waist in his arm. He tightens his grip and leans in even more. The back of her head bangs into the wall, but he just tips their heads to the side and keeps kissing her.
Still clutching her hair in one hand, he shifts away so he can just look at her for a moment. They're in shadow, but he can see the line of teeth marks on her bared throat. He rubs his thumb against them, smiles when he sees her shiver. He nips another line down the other side, then fits his hand across, thumb on one set of marks, fingers on the other.
She presses her back into the wall, thinks about fighting for breath. Her hands curl and gouge her fingers into the brick, nails scraping across the rough surface again and again. His hand is warm, almost hot, and she thinks that after this is all over, she'll have a burn mark in the shape of his hand.
Her vision is blurring, staticky darkness creeping in at the edges. Her whole body feels heavy with want. He shoves his thigh under her short skirt and in between her legs, rubs it back and forth, and she can feel every drag of leather against the silk of her underwear.
She gasps. She thrashes against the grip of his hand 'round her throat, feels the wrench of his fingers still tangled in her hair. He lets go with both hands and she collapses against him, trembling.
Her desk in homeroom is next to the window, chilly in the winter but she likes it that way. She toys with the threads escaping from the over-long cuff of her sweater, which can cover her hand completely if she wants it to. She always wants it to. She presses on the bruises she knows are there, hisses just a tiny bit, making a puff of breath visible on the window.
A shadow falls over her, and when she looks up, he's looming close. Neither of them say a word, or even smile, but she breathes in deep through her nose and mouth, can taste the scent of his aftershave, and shudders. He moves to his seat at the back of his column, one row over from the window, and she shakily gets out her notebook and a pencil to give her hands something to do.
She resists the urge to tug on the ends of her scarf.