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Disclaimer: Not mine. Rating: Not for the kids.
Character: Bobby Goren
Summary: Eames thinks he's lonely. He knows he's not.
we are not together here Lonely. Eames thinks he's lonely. The barb in her words dug home, buried in his skin, and so he is here. Unremarkable motel, boring sheets, a print that a hundred thousand motels have copies of on their walls. And a woman he won't remember the name of come morning. But he is Robert fucking Goren, and he will be memorable. Always. She arches beneath him, body enjoying everything he's done so far (and he wishes he was actually enjoying this, but pretends that he is). There is something about the way the industrial-sized washing machines leave the sheets crisp with that starchy tang that has always made him come hard. Bobby likes to tell himself that the woman he's fucking will remember his name. Brilliant, lonely men are a dime a dozen. He doesn't want to be one of them, doesn't want to be boxed neatly in a row with all of the other psychopaths. "Oh, god!" Fingernails claw down his back, and he feels the woman clench and unclench, and his smugness overwhelms him. The release is swift and almost brutal, his hips slamming into hers just a little harder as she continues to spasm. Eames, he thinks in triumph, as the woman beneath him shifts and almost *purrs* with contentment. I am not lonely. Not while he has this. -f- © 2005 ALC Punk! |