Not as pretty as Charlotte. She digs her nails into his skin, hoping for it to draw blood. Here’s the thing: their lips are pressed together now (hard), his fingers in her hair. She could win this fight right now. She could beat him, she could prove her superiority. She could make him never come back to her room, she could take him off her life for good. Their lips are pressed together and instead of pulling away, instead of snapping his neck, she opens her mouth, and presses her body against his. She’s not thinking, you see, not using her logic. It is nothing but her instinct, her need of him. It’s the way it feels. Their lips are like gasoline; one kiss, one spark, and they burn. She moves her hand to the nape of his neck, pulling his body up in the same pace as she digs her nails in his skin. No, no, no, no, no. Pull away. Pull away.  PULL AWAY. 

             Anna pulls away, hands moving from his neck to his cheeks as she takes in a deep breath. “Fuck you.” She growls, angrier at herself than at him, angry for being weak, angry for wanting him, angry for needing him. Body against his, she tries to think of a way to stop this, but her mind is clouded by the warmth, by the way his eyes look as she looks into them, angry and clear and burning with desire. “Fuck you.” She repeats, but doesn’t do anything. It’s like she’s frozen, unable to move, unable to leave, almost afraid of what would happen if she did something. Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you.