His Brand

A Jess Fic

By MahliaLily

Disclaimer: I don't consider myself a thief. Hopefully, no big-wiggy television executive types do either.

A/N: Another story I've been withholding. This one is a Jess fic set during the summer after "I Can't Get Started" AKA after Rory kissed Jess and ran away to DC. Just a little journey into his mind. Hope you like. Becka

Her hair smelled like cigarettes, his brand. She didn't smoke.

They'd both had shitty days up until the point when he'd shut up her incessant babble with a long kiss. As the lingering tendrils of smoke had journeyed from his mouth to hers, she'd wrinkled her nose unhappily. By the time, the backs of her legs hit the side of the bed, she was gasping for breath. He was her bad habit.

He had a lot of bad habits.

His hands had snaked roughly through her hair, along her arms, across her waist, between her legs – leaving a trail of skin-smoke wherever he touched until they both carried the same bitter scent.

Now, as she slept, he leaned into her, letting her blonde curls brush across his cheeks, all remnants of the sweet shampoo perfume gone. Gently, the tip of his nose ran over the hills along the back of her neck, across her shoulder blades, down to the dip just above her waist. He inhaled deeply. She smelled nothing like Rory. He liked that about her. She smelled like revenge.

Before tonight, he'd been waiting. He hadn't wanted to erase the brush of her lips against his or the way her arms had grabbed him desperately and pulled him in. He'd been waiting for her. He'd been waiting for something.

Nothing.

When she'd bounded away in a sea of brown hair and blue silk, she hadn't intended on coming back. He got that now.

Her plane landed tomorrow. He'd heard the chatter in the diner that afternoon. The princess was returning to the kingdom. Her subjects impatiently awaited her arrival, preparing their proverbial royal banquets and vying to be the first to bow before her. The only deed left undone was the sacrificial beheading. His was ready for the block.

It hadn't been a conscious choice, but when the petite blonde walked into the diner, eyeing him and smacking her gum like she didn't give a damn, he saw his way out. He took it without looking back.

He didn't know her last name. What music she listened to, what books she read, what made her smile or laugh or cry. When she batted her eyes, he felt nothing. When she talked, he didn't care. When she touched him, it burned.

When he kissed her, she didn't run, and that's all that fucking mattered.

He felt her stir and shift beneath him, and he pulled away. Glancing over her shoulder, she smiled a wicked smile at him, and he could swear he heard a purr. But when she turned to face him, his eyes met hers. They weren't blue. His gaze drifted to her hair. It wasn't brown. She said his name. It didn't sound right.

Climbing on top of him, she started to move.

When she leaned down to kiss him, he closed his eyes.

She tasted like cigarettes, his brand.

She tasted nothing like Rory.

He hated that about her.

She tasted like revenge.