His eyes are like cool liquor that goes warm upon touching your tongue. He's 115 proof, something strong, something special every time you see him, like vampire architecture.

His touch is like velveteen, you bet. He'd drink you straight with no chaser, you bet.

And you were right.

It didn't take long for Robert to catch on. You were a dispatcher too, just had the job much longer than he did. Those glances and praises of assurance weren't just out of care, just to support a new employee— it was a siren call.

And he fell deep.

Straight into the depths of your lingering touches when you'd walk past, or when you'd hand him some documents that definitely didn't need his sign. He tripped over the boundaries of professionalism, and pivoted right into the desire your eyes held with each shameless look.

What could you have done? He's a handsome man. No woman on his finger, tiredness in his eyes, a voice that steeled your heart.

You wanted him. And hell—you made him want you too.

Makes sense why you're wasted over his shoulders. His mouth tests butterfly doors. He laid you down, dressed you down, torn off anything that separated his skin from yours.

This hotel room was checked out all by your hand. And he's in awe. The dimmed lights, silk sheets, privacy. You're his little party here, dying in his effervescence.

His voice rumbles with the hum he contently speaks, calloused hands tracing soft skin, drunken eyes gazing down upon a work of art—your work of art.

The taste, the touch, It's all too much, violates the feel of us. There might be in the consequences in the end. Seeing the fact that your fiancé won't be happy with this if he finds out—you don't care if It hurts. If it's a special night with him, it's worth to lose it all

"You're wasted." He murmurs, slurs, catching the flush on your face. His shirt is lost, hands steady himself on the pillow, either side of your head. Wine sits on a nightstand, accompanied with two glasses, half-empty from several pours. So is he though.

That diamond seated on a gold band? The one that sparkles on your ring finger? It's a glimmer of all he's melting in right now, and that's what he sees it as. He stares at it, almost glares at it before he takes your hand, holding it delicately.

A scoff slips past his lips, "sure you want this, princess?" His eyes flick towards yours, watching carefully. He might be drunk, but there's a logical part always alarming in his head. Always. And it's telling reminding him of the dear words he chooses every day.

Don't fuck up, Robert.

But do you know any better?