Dakota

He has that look in his eye again.

Dark orbs holding something very akin to hatred-it's a destructive and thorough anger, the dark shadows cutting across his sharp cheekbones only heightening the rage, it has my insides churning all the more.

And I can't help but stare.

Can't help but be awestruck, because I think,

"He's surreal.."

It's the way his cool leather brushes against my bare arm, has my skin prickling with heat. It's the way his rose pedaled lips curl into a soft snarl.

And my nose twinges with his scent-it wafts up, into an alluring swirl of faint cigarettes, leather and that sweet bitterness that only emits from hard, numbing liquid and Harley Abrams.

And I don't expect it.

Voice crisp and rumbling, as though not use to being vocalized. It rolls down every crevice in my spine, has my eyes hazing; warmth rolling my stomach in waves.

"Dakota."

I don't expect it at all.

Know I must be dreaming because i could swear those glassy eyes belong only on inked paper and the depths of my mind.