She leaned in kissing him softly. I hate you, she thought, but right now there are others I hate more, lying to herself. She wore crimson lip stick that night, knowing it would tempt him, draw his lips to hers. And that’s what it did, it tugged gently at him. Taunting him, making him want her more with every breath.
Before he could pull away she slid her hand up the inside of his thigh. He drew in his breath sharply, first from of the sensation of her caressing hand, then from the sharp tip of her knife penetrating the soft flesh surrounding his rib cage. As she pulled her blade from his chest he fell toward her moaning quietly. Blood surged from his wound onto her dress. Shoving him to the floor she stood, and wiped the metal clean on her already stained evening gown.
She knelt beside him, and tenderly touched his cheek. His breathing was growing more labored. Something like a smile crossed her lips. “Soon,” she whispered “there really will be others I hate more.” That said, she stood to take her leave. As her finger tips touched the door knob, she turned back to him for a moment. With that finial look, whether it had been from hatred or longing, she was gone.
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