Bittersweet

He takes her by the wrists, forces her up against the wall and revels in the way she writhes and flushes. He eyes her heaving chest, nodding his approval of the way her breasts rise and fall, cleavage pressing up against the slit of her sweater. His tongue, pink and threatening, slips out from between his lips, gliding lecherously across the bottom one slowly as he leans in closer, closer until their foreheads touch.

She whimpers and turns her head to the side, eyes closed.

“Aw, c'mon. Don't be like that,” he coos, releasing one wrist so he can cup her cheek and turn her face back to his.

“What do you wan―mmfmmph!”

His lips are on hers, the kiss bruising. Her sounds of protest soon turn into quiet, pleasurable groans. He lets go of the other wrist, grabs hold of her hips and grinds them against his. She whimpers; he chuckles.

He pulls back, licking his lips and pushing himself away from her abruptly, grinning from one ear to the other.

“What...?”

“You had some powdered sugar on your lips,” he says, laughing as he whirls around on his heel and walks away, leaving her to stomp over to the counter, close the box of donuts and promptly toss them in the trash.

Never again, she promises herself. Never again will she eat powdered donuts.