Perhaps he truly was a villain.

He constantly cast his eyes from side to side, skimming them over me like I was something meant to be caught.

He spoke of his wicked ways.

His love of young women. Beautiful, innocent, soft.

I allowed him, against my will or otherwise, to run his fingers under my shirt. He curls around my waste, as though trying to find some way to make me fit into him unintametly.

I watched him crack strangely under the knowledge that I in fact fit, perfectly.

Shy faced; he nuzzles his expression into my guts. I feel wisps of wind pass over my belly button as he tries to take in my scent.

Once.

Twice.

Thrice.

He made a point of memorizing my scent. He intended to find me again.

I run my hand through his inappropriately blond hair. I played with the idea of asking him to tell me a secret. But I never ask people for their secrets.

He mumbles words straight into me, and they sting against my soft underbelly. I would ask him to repeat himself, but the message was never meant for me.

"Michael…" Something forced his name from my throat.

Michael, or worst still, Mike. A name I could lesser call out in passion then I could my own.

He detaches himself, just barely, lifting his eyes to meet mine.

He has a small spark in the left corner of his eye, something indefinable. It disappears almost instantly.

I can tell that he wants to tell me a secret. But I still will not ask.

His secret is not worth my secret.

He still holds me, as though suddenly a stream of light would creep in and steal me away.

I fear his fingers may find the two-day-old scabs left over from a night of foolish passion. The carpet doesn't seem very rough when someone is inside you. However empty, one comes to find that it is a cruel weight bearer.

He grazes just centimeters from it, for a spit second misplaces lies run past my brain.

"I went down a slide wrong."

"I fell…"

"I…"

They all pale in comparison to the truth, just as all lies do.

The old scabs of an old lover, soon to become new scars of my forever lover. love does bear the strangest of marks.

Michael asks me an obscure question that I can only cock my head at.

I place his forehead against mine, perhaps to suck something out. His temperature matches mine.

We talk, much longer then the young should. I knew what he wanted, worst still, I knew what I wanted.

I want to taste him again.

Suddenly, I'm the villain.

"How can you say you've done everything? There are so may beautiful places to see, beautiful people to meet!"

"See? That's why I like you."

It's suddenly my turn to look away. Feel foolish.

It's not me though; it's why he likes the young. It's why he lays with seventeen year old girls. It's his sin, not mine.

Poor Hubert.

Loving the small ones, easily broken, but so beautiful. Untouched skin is unmistakably supple.

Looking fifteen at nineteen should be a crime. It's too cruel.

Especially one who is already in love.

It was only in some freakish masturbatory way that I was able to enjoy it.

Perhaps I digress; perhaps I should be concentrating more on roaming hands, monitoring their movements, and the sweet sensations they send down my body.

I force my memory to test the taste of him on my tongue. The tingles worsen. That was foolish.

I give him a dirty look from behind my currton of hair. How dare he make me such a fool.

"Can I kiss you?"

I feel emotions run across my face, letting loose, against my will, my secrets. My breath hitches, caught between my 'yes', and 'god yes'.

I bend my back, cocking my head; I look up at him, with my biggest pair of eyes. I curl my fingers into knots.

Wordless, I can only stare deep into him. From below he looks like a man. I have never lain with a man.

I place a kiss on my fingers and run them over his lips.

It's not that I'm wicked, only weak.

I constantly find myself curled deep in him. Covering myself in his scent, hiding behind his body. I am suddenly, and strangely, safe.