Title: Soft Author Name: Princess Valium (princessvalium74@hotmail.com) Fic Rating: Strong R/ mild NC-17...sex n'language Pairing: Wes/Lilah, Lilah POV Spoilers: None, except for a non-spoilery reference to 'Billy'. Archive: Just ask, I guarantee I'll say yes. Unless it's the Gee You Suck Archive. Disclaimer: Not mine, Mutant Enemy's. Suing me would like being trying to squeeze blood from a stone. I'm sure you have better things to do. Summary: Lilah decides to have a little me-time, until Wes arrives... and, well... it's still all about Lilah. Author's Note: This is my first attempt at an Angel fic, and only my 3rd fanfic ever. I apologize in advance for the extremely long, run-on sentences, but that's just my style. Also, this text-only thing has ruined some of my formatting. I hate that. All the phrases inside asterisks are supposed to be italicized. So play along and imagine that for me. I'm a feedback whore, so feed my addiction. Please. Soft Despite your exhaustion, you're looking forward to tonight. You need this, you convince yourself. You deserve this. Getting home late from the office (which isn't really late anymore, it's pretty much *de rigueur*, isn't it?), you take off the designer suit that set you back, what... well, a couple grand anyway, pocket change really, but you still hang it neatly and admire the feel of the fabric beneath your fingers. You are a very tactile person, this is something not too many people know about you. You select things because of their feel...if they feel good, you want them. You slip into a pair of pink silk pajamas and embroidered slippers you picked up for yourself when you were in Korea threatening Gavin Park's dear old grandparents if the little prick ever hit you again. Tying your hair back into a loose ponytail, you regard yourself in the mirror scrub away your makeup and the ubiquitous grime under your fingernails. Makeup, designer clothes, and dirt. Hazards of living in L.A. You haven't seen Wesley in weeks. You know he's slowly working his way back with Angel Investigations, but he's called anyway. Left messages. *Just checking in*. But fuck him, fuck him for going back to them, not like you didn't know he would, but fuck him anyway. You erase the messages, pissed off at him, but even more pissed off at yourself for caring. "Tonight," you breathe, "is about me." Well, it's always about me, you think, and chuckle to yourself. You picked up a pre-made gourmet meatloaf and a pint of Haagen Dasz, Triple Brownie Overload, at an overpriced grocery on your way home. Funny that meatloaf is your comfort food, because as a child, every time your mom served it, you fussed and bitched and picked at it. Funny that it's comforting now, twenty years later. Even more incongruous is the fact that you've successfully managed to hide that fact that you come from nothing but trash, Sacramento suburban trash, the kind where you have meatloaf every Wednesday, and fish sticks on Fridays, then go hang out at the strip mall with your friends, smoking cigarettes you bought for a quarter apiece from the Lebanese guy in the 7-11. You've almost erased that part of yourself, but it's there. You know it's there and you hate it. You put the meatloaf into the oven and wander into the living room, settling into the deep couch. You were going to get an Italian leather sofa, but none of them were deep enough. You wanted a couch you could sink into, get lost in. And this one is perfect. You can stretch out , even roll halfway, and still be comfortably situated. A good couch, like a good lover, is hard to find. And when you find one, you hold on to it. Wesley. What an amazing lover, you've never had someone like... no. No. You will not go there tonight. Tonight is about you. Flicking on the plasma screen high-definition TV you scored from Congressman Blim for 'helping out' Billy (Ha. That didn't quite work out now, did it?) you find what you're looking for and settle in for a long night of TV viewing. Another guilty pleasure. You like reality TV, are fascinated by its redneck glamour, especially the shows where a bunch of people are trapped in a house or an island and have to try to live together. It never works out. Eventually it disintegrates into a free-for-all, a bunch of sociopaths mauling each other. It reminds you of your job. The meatloaf is ready and you drink it with red wine, vaguely amused by the fact that the only beverage you have to go with meatloaf is a very expensive Cabernet. You don't drink to get drunk, not tonight at least, but just to blur the edges a little, to make the night, and the memory of the day, less sharp. Soon, the meatloaf is gone and so is half the bottle of wine, and you're feeling drowsy and full and much, much better. The movie you're watching is almost halfway finished and despite having seen it god knows how many times, you're glued to the TV, waiting until the commercial to make a quick sojourn into the kitchen to grab the ice cream. The glare of the lights bouncing off the sterile, white appliances and countertop hurts your eyes. You turn off the light and navigate in the dark, grabbing the container and a spoon before skittering back to the living room before the commercials end, grabbing a pillow from the back of the couch and tossing it against the arm. You curl up in the corner and prize off the plastic from on top of the ice cream container with your teeth, your eyes never leaving the television. The good parts are coming soon, so you dig into the super-sweet, heavy and rich ice cream and refuse to linger on the thought that this could possibly be the most fat you've ingested in weeks, and the havoc it will wreak on your digestive system. There's a knock on the door and your tired, fuzzy mind considers not answering it, because it's not commercial yet, but the sensible part of you-- is there *any* sensible part of you left, you wonder-- knows that you ought to answer the door, because if you don't there is a good likelihood that whoever is on the other side will simply kick it down. With a sigh, you pull yourself from the couch and stroll to the door, as casual as you please, mentally preparing yourself to be 'on' again. Hopefully, you can get rid of whoever it is fast. If it's Gavin Park, that little freak, you'll threaten to slice off his balls and jam them down his throat for coming by off-hours, to her home. If it's Angel... well, it's not Angel or the door would be splintered by now. You look through the peephole. It's Wesley. Fucking Wesley, looking wall-eyed and narrow-headed due to the distortion. With a sigh, you open the door. "What do you want?" "Well, I just thought I'd stop by, and..." He shifts from one foot to the other, like a nervous boy. "I'm busy." "Can I come in?" Did he just hear you? Nevertheless, you swing the door open and step back. "If you think you're gonna get laid, you're wrong." He sheds his jacket and hangs it over a kitchen chair, familiar enough with her apartment to be able to do this in the dark. Or maybe he just works better in the dark. Christ knows you do. "I wasn't thinking that." "Bullshit." "Well, maybe a little." He smiles disarmingly and you feel your resolve melt, just the tiniest bit, he so rarely smiles and when he does, the years just peel off him and he looks... fresh. But no. You'll have none of this tonight. No more. If he's sleeping with the enemy, he's sure as hell not sleeping with you. You smile back, widely, disingenuously. "You're not getting any, Wes, so put it out of your mind. Why don't you go sniffing around Angel Investigations, maybe that little anorexic thing will have you." It's amusing, you think, the image of those two in bed together. You've fucked Wesley, and know for a fact he'd likely snap her in two. If the talk and the kink didn't drive her away in the first place. "Not interested," he replies. You laugh, a short, sharp sound, and return to the living room, back to your movie, leaving him in the kitchen. Stretching out on the couch, you turn your face back to the television, but can't resist a sidelong glance in his direction as he wanders in, wineglass in hand, and takes in the scene. He tactfully chooses not to comment on the rapidly-softening pint of ice cream, but instead decides to attack you on your programming choices. "'Carrie'?" He asks. "Uh-huh." There's a long silence as he stands at the foot of the couch and watches as the gym teacher hands out detention to a pile of poorly dressed fashion refugees who all look much older than the seventeen years they're supposed to be playing. You wonder if you ever looked like that. That poorly dressed. You did go through a Madonna phase in the mid-eighties, so you suppose you must have looked pretty laughable too. Those neon jelly bracelets were hideous. He gestures towards the couch. "May I sit down?" "Sit wherever you want. I'm not moving. You're the one who barged in here." To your shock and, well not really your dismay, but your shock at any rate, he lifts your legs and deftly slides under them, seating himself and placing your shins across his lap. He does this so quickly you hardly have time to react. Better not to make a big deal of it. "Make yourself at home," you mutter, not turning away from the TV. "Nice slippers." He traces the gold embroidery with one finger. You flick your foot up, annoyed. You're ticklish, but don't want him to know that. "What were you expecting, fuzzy bunny slippers? I hope you know me better than that." "I thought I knew you, but when I come in here and see you're watching bad horror movies in your PJs while drinking wine and eating ice cream, it's time to reassess." Asshole. You knew he would get a jab in about the ice cream eventually. "Fuck off, Wes," you say airily, "besides, 'Carrie' is a classic." "Classically bad." You lift your head fractionally to look at him. "You can always just leave." "I think I'll have some of this wine instead." He leans over to pour wine and your legs are folded between his thighs and belly and oh my those abs are tight, aren't they? But no. You'll not have any of *that* tonight. No, no, no you won't. "Good. Drink the wine and shut the hell up because I'm watching this." The movie continues and you're almost able to ignore his presence, but he's there, spectral, a vibe in the air you can't seem to shake off. You briefly entertain asking him why the hell he's here then, if it isn't to get laid, but decide against it. You don't really want to know. "I can imagine you doing something like that." He gestures with the wine glass towards the TV, where the bitch, Chris and her boyfriend, a younger John Travolta with a feathered hairdo, are slitting a pig's throat. "I have people to do that kind of thing for me." You wave you hands in the air. "No blood on these hands." He laughs then, and wine slops over the side of the glass and splatters on his shirt. "Shit," he mumbles, but takes a healthy swig anyway. You wonder how much he had to drink before he came over. You're guessing not too much, because he's a quick drunk, and gets sloppy and surly after only a few, and right now he's being positively friendly. As much as he is ever friendly with you, anyway. You prop yourself up on your elbows, lifting your chest off the couch. "Give me some of that." You nod towards his wine glass. He looks at the bottle, empty now, and hesitates. "There's more in the kitchen. You get it and you can drink it." Grinning wolfishly (all the better to eat you with, my dear) he brings the glass to your lips and tilts it slowly, watching you intently as you finish the glass. You're glad it's so dark in here, you wouldn't want him to see the flush you feel spreading across your chest and creeping up your neck. He removes the glass, and as he does, some of the wine catches on your bottom lip. Before you have a chance to lick your lip, his index finger swipes across it, picking up the tiny drop of wine, and he sucks the tip of the finger into his mouth. Then he lifts your legs again and goes back into the kitchen for more wine. You sink back down and start offering up prayers to increase your resolve, but since there's no god that would ever answer to you, and more wine is on the way, you feel the futility in the gesture and give up. You won't make a move, you decide. You'll just lay here and watch TV and not encourage him. That's right. Watch TV. Don't encourage. You don't want him. You. Do not. Want him. He is wannabe good, you are evil. It's a bad idea, Lilah. Very, very bad. He's back and pouring two glasses of wine-thank god for small miracles because you don't know if you could stand being fed by him again-keeping one eye on the TV. Ha. The bastard, for all his Bodleian library bravado, is into the movie. He lifts your legs, much higher this time, at the hip, and you panic briefly because you're wondering what he's going to do and you've got a full glass of Merlot in your hand and the white upholstery on your couch sure as hell doesn't need to be ruined. But then he sits, closer this time, his right leg against your ass, your thighs across his lap, and reaches for his wine. You choose not to comment on his proximity, mainly because you doubt your voice would sound even, and you don't want to give him any ammunition. The movie finishes, as does the bottle of wine, and you're feeling warm, fuzzy and infinitely more relaxed. There will most definitely be a visit from the hangover fairy tomorrow, but right now you don't particularly mind. "Here's the thing," you mumble, "I know a lot of TKs and none of them had that kind of control over their powers that early on." "I can't believe you're commenting on the realism of that shite movie, Lilah." You prop yourself up on your elbows again and look at him. "Oh come on. You enjoyed it. You liked the mother, didn't you?" "They're all going to laugh at you. They're all going to laugh at you. That's going to be spinning through my head for days. And what was going on with her hair? Bloody great rat's nest, that's what it was." You laugh, for real this time. "Your hair looks good, though." "Right now?" You look at him, surprised. The loose ponytail you had hours ago had essentially fallen to pieces, with the shorter tendrils out completely. Disheveled, that's the word. You're disheveled. "Yeah, right now." He reaches out and tucks a strand of hair behind your ear, but taking his time about it, his finger tracing the curve before dropping off the side of your jaw. You suppress a shiver. "You look good right now, Lilah. Very good." You search his face, looking for the barb, waiting for the inevitable insult. You find nothing but his eyes, staring at you, serious. "Soft." "Soft? I look soft?" You stare at him incredulously. "Soft?" "Yeah." "What the hell is that supposed to mean?" You feel your hackles start to rise. "Just that. Soft." "You mean vulnerable." "I don't know what I mean, really. Soft was the word that came to mind, I can't explain it, except to say that whatever it is, Lilah, I like it." You stare at him for a long, silent moment, trying to come up with the perfect line, but in the end, all you can come up with is something straight out of the schoolyard, petulant and lame. "Well, whatever it is, I didn't do it for you." "I'm sure you didn't." You catch sight of the Overlook Hotel looming on the HDTV. Thankful for the distraction, you turn back to the TV. "Shut up now. The next movie's on." "Not another bloody Stephen King movie," he moans, but you can hear the amusement behind it. "There's a marathon. That was my plan for the night. You weren't part of my plan for the night. So you can either stay here and watch the damn movie or... well, you know where the door is." He shifts under you, nudging your body forward. "Shove up a little," he says, wedging himself behind you, stretching out. You do as he says but turn your head to look at him with an arched eyebrow. "Well, if we're going to watch another movie, I want to lie down. It's late, you know." You make a muffled sound, somewhere between a snort and a laugh, and edge a bit further away. You don't want to be that close to him, not close enough to *feel* him, especially not the part of him which may or may not be hard, but is perfectly aligned with your ass, and if it were hard, you know yourself well enough to know you simply could not resist the urge to rub up against that, luxuriate in the feel of him. For a woman so strong and successful, you are utterly in awe of a hard cock, and as far as Wesley is concerned, that has been your downfall. You wonder if he knows. He must. All he has to do is let you know it's there, either by sight or touch, and you're done. You're easy, Lilah, easy, and he knows it. But to his credit he doesn't follow her, doesn't pull her back, doesn't even say anything, he just watches the movie and occasionally speaks, commenting on the film or something equally as neutral. And quickly you find yourself relaxing again, letting your guard down, which is why you're totally shocked by what he does next. "Lilah." His voice comes from behind your head and above, you can smell his breath, slightly gamey and edged with alcohol. "When I said you looked soft... I meant... you look different. In a good way. I'm glad I came over tonight." Too stunned to move, you mentally turn over what he was going to say next, what insult was going to follow up that statement, but your brain is working far too slowly to process anything except that his index finger is trailing down your jaw, following the angle down to your chin and exerting a gentle pressure, tilting your face upwards. And then his lips are brushing yours, softly, so softly in fact that it's barely there, except that you can feel it in every part of your body. He kisses you again, with only slightly more pressure this time, lips just whispering along, his hand cupping the side of your face, thumb rubbing tiny circles as he kisses you and kisses you, like he's never going to stop, but he does and when he pulls away your lips instinctively follow his, until you realize it and draw back in shame. He looks down at you, a hint of a smile tugging at his lips. "Movie's back on." He inclines his head toward the TV and, stunned, you turn back to watch it, though in reality you're not registering much, except for the fact that your body is now firmly pressed against his and the hardness you didn't want to feel is just barely perceptible, but oddly enough you're too shocked to encourage it and simply rest there, your perceptions slowly sharpening until you can focus on the movie again-- well, you are aware of it now, at least--and you relax back into him. You think about kicking him out, because you are dangerously close to letting go, completely letting go and that would give him so much power, too much power and then you would have to have him killed, or kill one of his friends, alienate him so that he knows *you cannot be fucked with*. But then he slides a hand, one slender, white, incongruously feminine hand over your waist and down your arm and links his fingers through yours, squeezing reassuringly. He must feel you shaking because he pulls you to him more tightly and drops a chaste kiss on the crown of your head. And the great white unsinkable ship split and began to go under. You figure if you're going to go down, you may as well go down in style and so you twist on to your back and reach for him, your hand curling around his neck and pulling his head down to yours. You kiss him the way he kissed you, teasing and nibbling, and he responds carefully, letting you set the pace, his lips moving in time with yours, never pushing too far. Pulling back, you steal a glance at his face and note that his eyes are closed, dark eyelashes in stark contrast to pale skin, the muscles of his face slack, relaxed. You've never seen him look so relaxed. He opens his eyes at the lack of contact and rubs a thumb across your kiss swollen lips, and you can't help but swipe your tongue over it, your eyes cast up, on him, as he hisses a breath between his teeth and struggles into a sitting position, pulling you with him. You straddle him, knees pressed up against the back of the couch, as his hands tangle into your hair and ease out the remnants of your disheveled ponytail. Then he cups your face and brings you forward, kissing you with the same excruciating lightness, stealing your breath and your senses, especially your common sense, which tells you that no good, absolutely no good at all, can possibly come of this. Your tongue flicks lightly at his bottom lip, as if asking for permission, and when his mouth opens wider to admit you, you emit a tiny, almost imperceptible whimper, and then your tongues are sliding wetly against each other and everything else is gone except for the exquisite subtlety of the sensations flashing through you, flowing from where your mouths meet and spreading in your pelvis, which is tightly pressed against his. He seems perfectly content just to spend the entire night just kissing me, you muse, but you're wrong because his fingers are working at the silk-covered buttons of your top, never breaking contact with your lips. He kisses his way down your neck and across your collarbone, nudging off the top as one hand hefts the weight of your breast, measuring it. You move to undo the buttons of his shirt, but his other hand takes your wrists and gently but firmly removes them. The message is received, loud and clear. Tonight is about you, after all, so you surrender to it, to him. Five fingers surround a nipple, drawing it up into an aching point before traversing your chest to do the same with the other. He grazes the tips of your nipples with the pad of his thumb, pinches them lightly, then not so lightly, rolls them between his fingers, and teases them into rock-hard, aching agony, unrelenting, until your hand's pressure on the back of his neck finally encourages him to dip his head and lash at your nipples with a pointed tongue. You're moaning continuously now, every psychic bolt holding you together loosening and you're pleading silently for him to just suck already, and maybe you're not being so silent after all because he takes a swollen nipple into his mouth. But no, he's not ready to give up the exquisite torture yet, because he's just sliding his lips over your nipples, leisurely, leaving them the color of ripe raspberries and glistening with saliva. You hazard a glance down and notice that he hasn't even broken a sweat, the bastard, and here you are, writhing on top of him like a whore on Spanish fly. You're about to grab him and *make* him moan, but then he starts to suck, strongly , and his right hand has found its way under your pants and between your thighs and you cry out at the dual sensation of his rough sucking and the smooth glide of his finger over your aggravated clit. His mouth leaves your breasts and he sits back, watching you as his fingers stroke your pussy languidly, and although you usually balk at being stared at with such intensity, you are too far gone to care. One finger, then another, press into you and you briefly consider pulling him out of those too-tight jeans and screwing the living daylights out of him, but his fingers are thrusting into you, fucking you roughly, the way he knows you like it and your thighs tighten and start to tremble but he stops, stills himself entirely until you've dropped down a notch. If you weren't so far gone you'd have made some comment on that, but right now you're entirely in his thrall and you know he won't disappoint, he's too captivated by your orgasms to ever let that happen. One finger withdraws, but his thumb is sliding over your clit with the barest touch and the remaining finger is swirling inside you, insanely gently, but sparking every nerve into delicious anticipation. Then your breath catches and the tingling begins at the base of your spine and you implore him not to stop, not this time, not ever. You arch back tightly as the sensation begins to overwhelm, and whatever part of your brain is still cognizant takes in the image on the television which at some point has been mysteriously muted. Blood. A door slides open, and...blood-soaked walls, floor, ceiling. And you know, *you know*, that this how it's going to end, in a bloodbath of immeasurable fury. Before you can reflect on what form the inevitable carnage will take, who will be bled and sacrificed to the gods to pay penance for this... aberration... the only logical part of your brain shuts down and you pull yourself back up, hands braced on the back of the couch as his fingers speed up only fractionally-he's still deliberate and slow-and his free hand captures you behind the neck and forces your face down, down, so your faces are inches apart, but no, he doesn't kiss you, he's holding your face, staring into your eyes and he's murmuring something. "Come for me, gorgeous." You don't know whether it's his voice or his eyes that sends you over the edge, but it hits you like a Hokusai wave and you make a small helpless sound, unable to tear away from those eyes, the blue, the intensity of him watching you. It's too much, it's too fucking much and you're coming and coming, eyes fluttering shut and arching your back, hips riding out the waves in perfect rhythm with his fingers, god what he does to your body, and it feels like it's never going to end, never, but it does and you sink down against him, melted, melded to his chest, head on his shoulder as you breathe in hot puffs against his damp neck. His fingers slow and stop, sliding out from underneath your pants and you can hear him suck them into his mouth. He wraps an arm around your back and the other hand cradles the back of your head, stroking idly, as you shiver in his arms, aftershocks coursing through you and making you whimper. He holds you like this for a long time, long enough for you to come down, which usually takes a while, but is taking longer tonight, courtesy of the mind-bending orgasm you just experienced. "Do you want to go to bed?" he murmurs, and you lift your head to look at him blearily-- it'll be hours before your senses are sharp enough to engage in any kind of high-end thinking. "Sure." You ease off him and stand on shaky legs, weak as a newborn fawn, and wonder if he will be joining you. Apparently he is, because he lifts your abandoned top from the floor, draping it over his arm as he guides you with gentle pressure at the small of your back to the stairs and then up them, patient with your slow pace. Once in the bedroom, he turns on one of the lamps on the night table, and the room is dimly lit and you can see him well for the first time in hours. His hair is messed, his lips red, he looks borderline insane and you can only imagine what you must look like if he looks that worked over. You wriggle out of your pajama bottoms, noticing with embarrassment the dark staining in the crotch where your wetness soaked the silk. You're glad it's not bright enough for him to see, and make a mental note to get the pajamas dry-cleaned. Naked, you regard him as he shucks his shirt, tossing it carelessly on the carpet behind him, and he starts to work the button on the waist of his pants, fumbling from the drink, or nerves, or whatever. You crawl across the bed, towards him, and his hands drop from the half-undone zipper as you approach, and notice that yes, he's excited and that flares something in your hazy mind as you curl your fingers over the rough denim waistband of his jeans. Dipping your head, you rub your cheek against him like a cat, luxuriating in the feel of his hardness, the musky smell of him, the zipper scratching your face. You kiss his shaft through the material, wet, openmouthed, and his breath shudders out in a shaky wave but he pushes you away, gently, and you sit back onto your knees, a little stung, but confused more than anything. He reaches out and smoothes your hair down, resting his hand on your shoulder. "I'm very tired, and... I'd just like to sleep. It's not you." You shrug and squirm under the covers as he turns off the lamp and slides in next to you. "I knew it wasn't me," you say in the dark, and are answered by a light chuckle. Turning to your side, you tug with you an ample amount of the goose-down duvet, in preparation for his late-night cover-stealing antics which generally leave you frozen and curled up in the corner of the bed, resenting every one of his contented breaths. He follows your body underneath the sheets, molding his body against yours, his chest against your back, his knees and legs drawn up against yours, your butt cradled in his pelvis. With a small sigh, he burrows through your hair until you can feel his breath against the back of your neck, and steals his hand around your waist to pull you closer, tighter, until there's no space between you at all. "Good night, Lilah," he murmurs against your neck. "Good night, Wes," you mumble as drowsiness overtakes you, and you fall asleep comfortable and warm and wondering when the other shoe will drop. You don't have to wait long. You wake up alone, all remnants of him gone. Miraculously, this comes as a big surprise to you, though you know it shouldn't, and you pad down the stairs, naked and numb. He has cleaned up the living room, washed the dishes, even put the empty wine bottles in the recycling bin. You see a note on the counter and your heart leaps, just a little, as you pick it up. Two words. *I'm sorry*. It's written on the back of the receipt from the grocery store, you note, and wonder why it is that you notice the stupidest things in the worst moments. You ball the paper in your hand and toss it in the garbage. Shakily, you pull afghan that your grandmother knitted for you with knotted arthritic hands, just months before her death, from the linen closet and wrap it around your naked body as you sink into a chair, legs pulled up, and try to convince yourself not to cry, not to be so fucking stupid, and instead end up berating yourself endlessly for having been such a patsy, for being weak and pliable and allowing this once-fun affair progress from a ploy to get information and draft a new employee into something personal, intimate. What was it he called you last night? Soft. He called you soft. And he was right, you are going soft, which is a fucking dangerous move considering the world you inhabit. You sniff and realize that you have been crying, and are disgusted with yourself. A wave of nausea hits you and you stumble to the bathroom, puking red wine and meatloaf and as you retch miserably, you hope you can purge him too, but he's in you like a virus you just can't shake, so you do what you must. You will move on. You will try to forget about it, about him, and make your life as normal as possible-- as normal as it can be, considering. And as you feel the scalding hot water from the shower rinse every trace of him off your skin, you tell yourself that you will never again let yourself be soft. But it's unconvincing, because you know that somewhere well-hidden dwells a Lilah who is inconceivably soft, who brushed her elderly grandmother's hair, who fed stray cats, who melts under a gentle touch and sleeps dreamlessly when wrapped in safe arms. Wesley saw her. But Wesley will never get a chance to see her again, because you are going to ensure that that Lilah is brutally suppressed. And so you don your armor-designer suit, killer heels and a mask of striking makeup, pick up your briefcase and head into the battlefield, plotting the next skirmish, losing yourself in strategy until Wes and his hands, his body and his eyes, his blue, blue eyes are almost eliminated from your thoughts. Almost.