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Apart from the burning of lust and the tremor of exhaustion in her muscles, there is a sense of unjustified pride in the tips of her fingers, the base of her toes, the pit of her stomach. There is a sting of terribly expensive, flowery perfume in her nose, the white hot pain in her shoulderblades, caused by angry, ruthless fingernails.
She tastes vodka, want, peachy lipgloss and smoke on her lips.
Even though it makes her angrier to know, she knows that she is, in fact, proud.
Proud that she has the Queen Bee of Blackwell with her back against the wall of the janitor's closet, legs wrapped around her waist, tiny declarations of need murmured against her skin.
She dares to open her eyes a little.
The usually impeccable, blond hair is messy, wettened with sweat, dishelved by Chloe's greedy hands. Her lipstick is smudged, her mascara is smeared. Her cashmere sweater is on the floor, one sleeve hanging over the rim of a dirty cleaning bucket. Her blouse is ripped open, some buttons hang loosely on a single string. Her bra was pulled up carelessly, leaving her chest free for Chloe to touch, bite, scratch, grope.
And she does. She touches, she bites, she scratches, she gropes. And she hardly leaves enough space between kisses for Victoria to hiss a "bitch" or a "stop that".
Because she doesn't give a fuck.
She's angry and she wants, so she doesn't want to see reasons to listen, to be careful, to calm down, to be less rough.
Even thinking about the blonde's usual behaviour makes her anger grow, sends another wave of hatred, red hot hatred, run through her veins. She feels goosebumps on her shoulders as she stops the kiss, buries her mouth in the elegant crook of Victoria's neck;bites into the soft, soft, soft skin. So hard, she can feel the bruise build, feels her teeth break skin, feels the girl tense up, feels how close she is to drawing blood.
Victoria moans, claws at her skin, pushes, kicks, muffles her screams with the back of her hand.
And Chloe smirks. Adds some more strength to the bite. Pulls a little, sucks a little.
She feels the skin on her own shoulderblades rip open. Feels the fresh, loud, white glowing pain as Victoria's long, fake French nails tear her skin apart; feels the wetness of her blood, smeared all over her back by Victoria's desperate fingers as she looks for something to hold on to.
She moves her leg between Victoria's. Feels the damp wetness soak through her ripped jeans, feels the wet heat crawling it's way through cloth, feels it spread. Feels the sting of desperation, crave, horniness in her stomach, in her hands, all over her skin.
There is not a single coherent thought in her head. She just feels the rhythm she pushes against Victoria with her leg. Feels the blonde grind against her.
Hears her desperate panting and muffled moans.
There is no space for a thought about later, about tomorrow, when she feels a hand tug at her hair, pulling her head back, away from the neck she's nibbling on, feels lips pressed against hers eagerly, hungrily. Feels a tongue pushed into her mouth with a force that hits her like lightning and rushes through her body like an electric shock, aggressively flooding a pulsing wetness between her legs.
Her mind turns off, she doesn't want to hold back, doesn't want to return. She holds on to Victoria's hips, pushes her down against her leg, gives her an especially slow and hard grind, causing the blonde to moan long, deep and loudly into her shoulder.
She can't hold back any longer.
She opens the button to Victoria's black skinny jeans, fumbles the fly open, and pushes her hand under the waistband of her silky panties.
Moans as she finally, finally feels her against her fingertips.
Victoria's head drops back with a thud, lips parted, eyes closed, eyebrows knitted together.
Chloe bites the front of her throat while pushing a finger inside, adding extra force with her thigh,
And her mind goes fully blank.