Tell the Devil I

Blue thought it impossible to be any happier after her lewd few minutes in the car with Vincent. Never had she been more wrong.

He’d chosen Italian. The restaurant was small, quiet. She’d worried they were keeping them open when they’d requested their table at a quarter-to eleven, though the staff would never show it. The brickwork was left bare, furniture obviously antiqued. The waiters wore no uniforms. They’d shared a table that seemed almost a little too small for two, knees brushing, glasses often confused. And though their clothes were crumpled, and she wore his blazer, constant reminders of their moment in the car, Blue blushed deeply each time they touched. Shrunk away as his legs leaned to hers. Tucked her hands in her lap when their fingers brushed.

Perhaps it was the fact that the lack of lighting deepened the green of Vincent's eyes in a way that forced her gaze from his when ten seconds became far too much.

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