OLDER MEN | THE WEEKND

21

hi sluts <3
sorry for the long wait!!! i was in a rut these past few days with exams and their consequences lol
hope you enjoy and lmk your thoughts and ily ;))

021

HIS HAND IS RESTING oh her thigh, and Bella is barely breathing.

     "Would you like some more of that warm lamb salad, Abel?" Bella's mother asks innocently, glowing under the warm light of the city's most opulent restaurant.

      "Thank you, Yolanda," The Weeknd says, shaking his head ever so slightly.
Every movement of any muscle on his body sends an electric jolt through Bella's spine.

   His fingers dig into the skin of her thigh mercilessly. In an instant, it turns into a caress, and the torturous staccato of his touches makes her see black.

    She had forgotten too caught up in her own act. She had forgotten how innocent she really is.

  She had forgotten how much power the man beside her has over her, how much control he has over himself.

  She had forgotten just much he wants from her.

   They had arrived at the restaurant shortly after her volatile changing session at the back of Abel Tesfaye's car, once she had slipped into a barely-there pearly slip-style gown that exposed more the more it covered, a puffy ostrich coat thrown over her shoulders.

     She didn't know what she had expected, but it couldn't have been more revealing.

"Did you have to get the sluttiest thing Dior has to offer?" She asks once he opens the car door for her. He stands there, the glow of the opulent building outlining the sharpness of his silhouette. In this light, he looks like her fantasy.

And older man with a leather belt and a constellation of silver rings on his fingers. The same hunger in his eyes, the same longing.

   His eyes barely graze her frame, but the evanescence makes her skin flush scarlet.

  "It suits you perfectly," he notes, distantly, as though he's thinking about something else— anything else but her.

      Probably counting the zeros in his bank account, she thinks bitterly, adjusting the hem that has already slipped up her thigh. 

   She doesn't miss the way his eyes slip up with it.

"I am not a slut," Bella grits out.

   He looks down at her.

"Are you sure about that, kitten?"

    Her parents are already waiting for them at one of the private booths, decorated elaborately with vintage gold and browns, muted reds and ornate patters scaling up the walls.

  Bella walks, Abel's hand placed slightly between her shoulder blades as though to guide her. One of his silver rings presses against the bare skin of her back, and Bella cannot help but inhale sharply.

     Her father's vicious gaze is more than sobering. Bella sneers to herself, caught between an awakening and the pleasure of having caused him even an ounce of distress.

    Now, however, sitting opposite her mother and father as the man's fingers caress the fever that is her skin, Bella is afraid.

   It was so sudden, this escalation. One moment, she was taking a breath to prepare herself for another fistless battle with her father over her menu order, and the next, he had placed his hand firmly atop her knee, as though to silence her.