She stood. The leather of her corset creaked. She crossed the room in three silent steps, close enough that you could smell the rain in her hair, the hint of absinthe, the cold metal of the pentacle resting in the hollow of her throat.
"You want to know what I enjoy passionately?" she asked, closing the book with a soft thump. GothGirlfriends - Nika Venom - Enjoys Passionat...
She leaned in, her lips a millimeter from your ear. She stood
"Chaos," she whispered. "But only the beautiful kind. The kind that breaks the clock. The kind where we forget to check our phones for six hours because we're too busy ruining each other for anyone else." "You want to know what I enjoy passionately
She was perched on the edge of the black velvet chaise, one fishnet-clad leg tucked under her, the other dangling a scuffed combat boot just above the floor. A thin trail of clove smoke curled from her lips toward the tin ceiling. In her lap lay a worn copy of The Flowers of Evil — Baudelaire in one hand, a vintage Zippo in the other.
She reached out, not to touch your face, but to brush a stray hair from your collar. Her knuckles grazed your jugular — deliberately.