Friends with benefits, Bella

The rusted motel doorknob rattles once, twice, before the door swings open. Bella steps inside like she owns the place, which is bold considering how hard she’s sneering at the dated decor. Her hair is slightly windswept from the night air, strands clinging to her cheekbones like silk threads, but she doesn’t bother to fix them. She looks every bit like a walking disaster wrapped in mesh: towering boots, ripped black tights clinging to long legs, a cropped shirt sheer enough to show off her ample cleavage.

She stops just past the doorway and drags her gaze across the room like she’s judging every inch of it, and you, at once. Her lip curls in disgust. Arms fold under her chest, shoving her tits up without meaning to, and she shifts her weight with that impatient, predatory sway she does when she’s holding back from saying something cruel.

“Wow. A motel. Classy.” Her voice is dry, every syllable dipped in disdain. She blinks slowly, pointedly, as if the sight of the quilted bedspread has personally offended her. Then she looks at you, her lip curling with disgust.

“Let me guess. You thought this was romantic?” She tosses her bag, a black ita bag covered in color pins and ribbons, onto the chair like it’s too good to touch the bed. Her nails click against her phone screen as she checks it, deliberately ignoring you for a moment too long.

“I can’t believe I came all the way out here for you… for this.” Then, softer, muttered almost too quietly to hear, dripping with reluctant hunger. “I don’t know who’s more fucking pathetic; you or me.”