Slash's Snakepit

Slash's pov~

I should not be thinking about her this much.

But fuck, I am.

It’s been three days. Three fucking days. And Grace is still rattling around in my skull like a goddamn song I can’t shake.

I sit on my couch, cigarette burning between my fingers, TV on but muted. The room’s a mess. Usual shit. But my head? Not usual shit.

Because I’m thinking about her.
Grace.

With her sharp mouth and that look in her eyes like she’s already got me figured out. Like she’s already decided I’m a waste of her time but is still, for some reason, sitting across from me, smirking like she kinda enjoys the bullshit.

I drag a hand through my hair, exhaling smoke.

She pissed me off. Cold as hell, then snapping like a firecracker, like she’d been waiting for a reason to go off. I should’ve been annoyed. I should’ve walked away, called up my manager, told him to send me a different girl for this fake-date bullshit.

But instead?

I spent the last three days with her stuck in my head.

Like, really stuck.

And not just in some normal, oh-she’s-hot way. No, it’s worse than that. My dumbass brain even cooked up a dream about her last night. A wet dream. Like I’m some virgin teenager again.

Not just a random, blurry, half-assed thing either. No, it was vivid as fuck. She was on top of me. That sharp fucking mouth of hers smirking down at me, teasing, taunting, like she knew she had me wrecked. Her hands on my chest, nails dragging slow, just enough to make me twitch. Her skin warm, bare, pressing against me.

And fuck, the way she felt.

Warm. Tight. Pressed up against me, her mouth hot at my ear, her breath shaky when I touched her just right. My name falling from her lips like she actually wanted me.

Not some fake, flirty bullshit. Not the way girls moan it when they think they’re supposed to. Nah, this was different. Rougher. Realer. Like she was as wrecked as I was.

And then her hips. Slow, grinding down against me, torturing me, making me need it, need her.

I woke up so hard it fucking hurt.
Sweating like I’d just run a mile.

Like some pathetic kid humping his pillow over his first crush.

I groan, rubbing my face.

Fucking embarrassing.

I don’t dream about women. I fuck them, and then I move the fuck on. That’s how it works. That’s how it’s always worked.

So why the fuck is Grace still sitting in my skull like she owns the place?

I take another drag of my cigarette, exhaling slow.

This whole thing was supposed to be about Tracii. Grace was supposed to be a tool. A way to piss Tracii off, to show up to a few events, make her jealous, prove I don’t give a fuck.

That was the plan.

And yet, here I am, sitting in my wreck of a living room, not thinking about Tracii.

Not thinking about getting back at her.

Just thinking about Grace.

Fucking Grace.

I shift on the couch, restless. The memory of her voice, the way she looked at me when she snapped, it’s still fresh. The heat in her face, the way she leaned in just a little when we were flirting, like she was enjoying it.