The thing is you have to remember is that these characters are not mine.
I needed to unblock the writers block. Free writing is always a good exercise. Don't look for a plot or some sort of deeper meaning. There isn't one. I'm also playing fast and loose with tense, past and present. And even future, I think.
It was after a fight.
It always was going to be after a fight.
It was going to be when adrenaline sang through her blood, when she walked the knife edge of life and death.
Back to the office, dim lights and too much furniture in the way.
Stumbling, through the dark, kissing like devouring, hands all over.
Angel holds Cordelia against his body, tangles his hands through her knotted hair and brings her forth, takes from her mouth like he’s drinking from a chalice.
Lips stained with paint, he licks it all off and she leans in for more, intoxicated and seduced.
Angel knows all the ways to make a woman sing, can make them beg on their knees and sell their children for the chance that he might give them an hour in his carriage, a night in his bed.
He uses all of that now, wants Cordelia mad with desire for him, wants her hotter than the desert sand, open like a lush flower heavy with spring rain.
Keeping his mouth against hers, his tongue sweeping in for another taste, he pushes her against the couch and drops her down, following like the moon after the sun.