Well Played, but Checkmate

Her fiancé strolled up to her chair and wove dexterous fingers into her blonde tresses. “Maybe,” he said pleasantly. “But my dearest,” he tightened his grip and angled her face up. “There’s still that bottle of god-awful liquid—” Leaning down, he lightly brushed his lips over hers. “—in the cupboard, over the fridge.” His breath smelled of mint.

Blinking cerulean eyes, she frowned delicately. “I don’t see what you have against Canola oil, Eddie.” She hedged, arching up from the chair and wrapped pale arms around his waist.

He chuckled, low and sure. “The whiskey, not the cooking oil, Monroe.”


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Next – Reaching Back


About azhwi

An editing student, graduated Feb 2012. An avid fan of video games, fanfiction, anime, writing, and the serial comma.
This entry was posted in Man-Made Wings, Post-Trauma and tagged , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

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