My breath froze halfway to my lungs in a treacherous spasm when your lips brushed against my chin. Just slightly, mind you. I exhaled through my nose with a mock contentedness. And the sound seemed far too loud in the ringing silence of the room.

Oh, this is dangerous territory.

Because you were blissfully gone in that hazy way only first-timers could be. I wasn't drunk enough to forget that I was a complete arsehole.

"Good God, kitten," I whispered through my teeth as your kisses wandered up towards my cheek. My hand reached for you of its own accord, fingers clawing into your hair in a futile attempt to calm you down. "You'll curse me to high heaven tomorrow if we let you carry on with this little trick."

For a moment I truly considered letting you (hypocrite that I am), but instead I smirked and sent you sprawling onto the heap of pillows with a theatrical shove. "No. Nope. Nuh-uh." I plucked the joint from your lax fingers, tapped the ash off behind me straight onto the floor, deliberately, instead of handing it back. That was it; full stop, no more. "Bad kitties get put in time-out until they remember how personal space works."

It was only teasing, though: my thumb still traced along the line of your chin, over the spot where I'd just been holding your burning face. A ridiculous compromise between scolding and indulgence. Who exactly am I trying to fool? The smoke coiled around us in lazy rings, as if justifying the lack of distance, while somewhere at the far edges of my humming mind, common sense was howling itself hoarse.

And sod it: perhaps I was saving a scrap of this tenderness of yours for when sobriety no longer felt like such an abstract concept.

"…mhm… Richard…"

I exhaled sharply as my name slipped from your smoke-stained lips. The joint smouldered, forgotten, between my fingers. Don't you dare whisper my name like that. Do not.

"Christ." There wasn't a shred of irritation in my words (probably), only the resigned, unquenchable tenderness I could never hold back when you were near. I laced my fingers deeper into your tousled hair (and when had you managed to press in this close again?). "You'll be absolutely unbearable once you sober up, won't you?"

You looked at me with glassy eyes—a whole storm splashing in them, and not a drop of sense—then giggled again, your little nose adorably wrinkling.

I rolled my eyes towards the ceiling, as if appealing to the heavens in silent prayer (knowing full well I'd sell my soul for one more repeat of this). "All right then," I sighed with mock drama, tapping the ash into the plate behind you and taking a drag, just to buy myself time.

Time not to think about the way your body arched into mine.

A stream of smoke was blown straight into your face, petty revenge for the fact you reached for the joint again instead of giving me the answer you should have.

Not that I expected anything coherent.

But Christ almighty, keep still. Stop wriggling, or I will have you spread out across these sheets right now. The weed made me indulgent; go on, sue me.

My eyes lingered on your lips. You murmured my name again, and that was enough. "Zip it." It came out almost voiceless. I suddenly unclenched my fingers. The joint fell onto the plate with a dull hissing sound. For a moment we were enveloped in the acrid smell of burnt weed and paper. Fuck, I didn't care anymore.

My mouth crashed onto yours, not tender contact: teeth to teeth, tongue to tongue. It was your fault that I was confused about myself.

You made a muffled sound; it drowned in the kiss. I caught the bitter tang of smoke on your lips, the faint sweetness of wine; and you, belonging to me. You tried to answer, but I gave you no chance to lead, forcing my slow rhythm. Some feral knot inside begged me to flip you onto hands and knees and rut into that dripping heat until neither of us remembered our own names.

You arched beneath me, and that groan you finally let slip into my mouth was all I needed to hear.

I pulled away from your lips to catch my breath.

That's it. Good kitten.