Fists turned into kneading digits. Curses to half-hearted grunts. Border-line in disapproval- but not quite. His hands had risen to fumble across her bare shoulder blades. "Owch." Expelling a huff, he cocked his jaw to the side. She had landed a decent punch at his chin. It would seem it was much too early to start such an intimate caress. She was still angry. And her eyes were level with his own. Brows furrowed. This was an ill sign. As was the tightened grip on his apparel. Leaning forward, he rested his chin atop the thick collection of obsidian. His hand moved, collapsing over the base of her skull. Gently kneading through the thick tresses. He allowed her to harshly clench at the leather of his vest. He couldn't deny her that. He quite possibly deserved the punch, as well.

He had frequented this certain house. Quite often- in the last few weeks. When he ran into this pretty little lady. All alone at the bar. His flirting, his advances, they were all in good fun. She denied him multiple times. To which he only took into stride. He liked the reactions. The irritable expression, the way her brows furrowed. How she refused to look at him. The other women responded all too readily. He could have had so many others- but he liked this one. Much too modest to bring a man home. Or accompany one there. No matter how alone she was.

Then the events all turned. He'd spotted her at her usual seat. And advanced. This was possibly the fourth time he'd taken a seat next to her. Offered to pay for her drink. Ask her if tonight would be the night. He didn't expect it to ever be. But she gave him a look. This one, he wasn't familiar with. Usually it was a tired glare. Or a rather disinterested look at best. This one, though. It looked much more receptive. Even alittle hopeless. She took another drink, then dropped eye contact. So abruptly, she said. "Let's go."

That's when he figured it out.

She was a house wife. A damn good one- he could tell by the state of her home. It was one of the most immaculate he had ever laid his eyes on. And he knew she was a house wife, due to the obvious pictures lining the top of the miniature fire place. Her wedding photo caught his eye the instant he walked in. And his gaze traveled to her left hand as she removed her coat. No ring. That was obviously a bad sign. But, he already knew what was going on. The husband was always out, every night. Spending his time with other women. Dante didn't blame this pretty little lady, standing in front of him. Wringing her hands together. Nervous, terrified.

He'd take good care of her.

Moving forward, he offered her a smile. He laid his hands on her hips- but halted at her starting. "W-wait.." He tilted his skull. The smile still in place. "What's wrong, babe?" She stared down at his chin. She was much too afraid to meet his gaze. "I.. I'm not like- I'm not.." The man captured her chin, tilting it upward. Leaning down abit, he locked his lips over her own. Silencing her. She didn't react at first. As he gingerly deepened the interaction, her hands moved upward, placed firmly against his chest. The devil hunter was by no means tender when it came to this. And there was a strict rule. Nothing so intimate as a kiss. But he'd never thought by the light of day, he would find himself comforting someone like this. She wasn't those cheap girls.

And it all started there.

It was a blur of fabric, needy hands and soon flesh against flesh. He knew- from the first gasp, he would fall in love with every exhale she created. And of the miniature moans, the gasps- he drowned more and more. The 'ahs', the 'mms', he fell more in love as they turned all the more ragged. Strained and desperate. With her face buried in the crook of his neck, her teeth snapping down over his flesh, he moved. She writhed against him, fumbling. It was too much. He could feel the moisture building on the roll of his shoulder. But it was not his blood from that particular bite. He rose his free hand, cupping the back of her skull against him as he rode out the waves.

They had left the lights on. Nothing was taken from his gaze. The curves she wore, the olive tone of her flesh. And the bruises. He found himself kissing each unsightly splotch. Each time he was rewarded with a cross of a hiss and another one of those delicious 'ahs'. They soon morphed into his name.

Damn..

It wouldn't be the last. He wouldn't allow it to be. Weeks passed, and he found her at the bar again. This time no words were exchanged. She took him home and they didn't make it to the bed that night. This interaction was much more feverish, blind. For the both of them. They needed this. And he lost himself in the topography of her body. Relishing in each and every restrained rush of air.

Then months passed. He had taken a job- forcing him to go out over seas. When he returned, the man was haggard down and tired. But he made his way to the bar. She wasn't there.

The continual visits lasted for weeks. No sign of the woman. He decided he would visit her house. Show up right on her door step. Husband or not.

That was how the last night came about.

She was angry, sad. Hurt. He had left without even a word and she felt all of the vulnerabilities. The scorn. As if she were really some cheap girl. But no- she wasn't. Dante only stood there as she beat her fists into his chest. Her cheek bruised. A gift from her husband the latter evening. He had showed up drunken and enraged. Something about his work laying him off. The devil hunter listened to her through broken up sobs. Held her close, stroked her hair. She was leaving the house. The next morning. Moving back home with her Mother. So far away.

This was the night where it was long. So terribly desperate. So terribly painful. But it wasn't long enough. No.

She gripped his shoulders as he moved, crying into his chest. He held her so close, as if she were really his lover. And they pretended that night. Pretended they were. Pretended and pretended. So vehemently wished- again and again. Over and over.

"Cherie. Cherie. Cherie."

"Dante.. Dante.."

But it was just a wish.