He didn't remember how he had gotten here. Axe wasn't even sure where "here" was, until his fingers brushed cold, slightly damp porcelain, and he remembered.
Here was kissing a woman whose dress he'd pushed so far up, his hand was more "between her legs," than "under her skirt," in a toilet, while he was drunk. At least he remembered who the woman was, that interminably neurotic Catapult, the one he'd been stuck in the lift with. It was ironic, really, that the person he'd been closest to telling about—about him, about the secrets hanging over his head, was the woman he was now pinning to a cracked mirror, beginning to cloud from their exertions.
His hand formed a fist in her hair and tugged her head back to break the kiss, even though his lips strayed no further than up her jaw. "Tell me," he said gruffly, unable to ignore the momentary hesitation.
He hadn't wanted to do that. He didn't care what she wanted. He didn't even care if she was sober enough to be doing this, because all he wanted was oblivion. He wanted to take and destroy and ravage and he wanted to—get lost. The promise of that was so close to his fingertips, truly, and the thought that he was doing something to jeopardize it was making his head scream. Not like him, not like him, not like him—
He wanted to not care.
Axe's grip on her thigh tightened unconsciously, but he stilled his lips and screwed his eyes up tighter, his thumb of the hand gripping her hand stroking up and down the nape of her neck. His voice softened, marginally. "Say it."
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