A/N: Hi again, so glad you clicked on this story, it's my first The Bold and the Beautiful story. It's also a ship that I'm pretty sure I'm the only crew member of, and being the lone crew member I christen this ship Hill. Also known as Hope Logan/Bill Spencer. Being a soap opera it really is just a matter of time before these two actually get together, I just called it first, and if Hope goes in the footsteps of her mother can her hatred of Bill stop the inevitable?
And just a word of warning before starting, if you've ever read my work before you know I don't do a lot of dialog, the same is true here, and if you've ever watched soaps then you know it's all dialog. And while I don't think Bill is the silent type this is set while at his lowest point so I believe he'll think a bit more before going on one of his typical diatribes. I've also disregarded most rules of grammar for this particular story.
This is just a bit of... fluff isn't the right word. Ah yes Smut, this is B&B after all. Let me know if you want more, I could write these two all day. And as always I don't own The Bold and the Beautiful, it's being slowing killed by Mr Bell.
He was drunk and she was crying. That really did seem like the only reason he needed to do what he did. Another fight, fights, he couldn't handle it anymore. He just wanted to be happy again. Baring that he wanted pleasure, pure unadulterated pleasure. And her, convenient, willing. A need to not be anything attached to anyone. And she lost herself in his arms, over and over. For a moment he thought he killed her, but she came around. Her eyes never did clear. He held her as she slept, he never did them, and when thinking about it blamed it on the whiskey. So delicate and frail, not at all his type, and of course her attachments would be a problem, another fight to have. Maybe the last fight. He couldn't see a way around it, he had lied enough to know that something like this couldn't be kept a secret for very long, even if they both tried. Then, he could see it now, her they would forgive of course, she was young, innocent, been taken advantage of. And he was the big bad wolf. Surely he knew better, no matter his condition, everything he said would be a lie to them. Everyone would be gone. He held her tighter, letting the warmth of her body fight the ice that danced on his spine. He slept.
He woke when he felt her pulling away. He grabbed her hand and held her there, she wouldn't look at him, he was getting mad when he saw the pink spreading across her face and neck and released her. She didn't run, didn't pick up her clothes and run out the door. She went to the bathroom and he heard the shower turn on. He waited. Sat on the side of the bed and didn't move. And when she came out wrapped in his towel he just looked at her, she didn't say anything but she did look. His face, his chest, his arms, his legs, his thighs, his. And the pink began to spread on her face again. He stood, she froze, he walked past her into the bathroom. He wouldn't fight it, not this time. Let everything fall where it may, he had done this, there was no trust left, from anyone. He had his company, he could get a bedmate any day of the week. That's how it was before, he could go back to that, it hadn't been a bad life. He cleaned himself, washing away the last few years and every attachment he had made, it all went down the drain with the soap. When he stepped out of the shower he felt new, alone, but new and ready to take on life again.
The smell of French toast made his knees weak. Her clothes were gone but his drawers were open. He took his time. Drying, getting dressed, fixing his hair. He walked slowly to his kitchen and there she was. Sitting in his chair at his table, nibbling on French toast. She looked good in his shirt, it swallowed her, but her cleavage was exposed and her legs, slim and pale. He didn't ask. He sat down opposite her and stared. She got up and poured him a glass of juice. She placed it before him and paused, no doubt a million things racing through her mind, none of them came out of her mouth though. She shook her head slightly and went back to his chair. He ate, he drank, he looked at her. She cleared the table. His eyes got greedy when she stood in front of the sink washing the dishes off. He pinned her there, bent her over, exposing her to him and took her. She braced herself well but he was mean about it. What was she about, not leaving, wearing his clothes, making breakfast. His son's wife, daughter of the woman he said he loved. And pleasure moaned from her throat. He let himself spill into her, held her in place as he marked her as his again. Her knees gave out when he let her go and he cleaned himself with the dish towel. He didn't looked at her as he left the room, didn't look back as he left the house. And let her image and the feel of her skin occupy his mind as he made his way to work and sat at his desk not doing a damn thing.
The first thing he noticed when he got home was the coat. The coat that was not his, feminine, small. He controlled his body, barely. And there she was in the kitchen. Salad on the table, he could smell the steak in the oven. Eat first he ordered himself, don't ruin food. Her clothes were different, he noted that, she had left, she had come back. Was she staying here? Would he let her? Would he stop her? The food was good, he complemented her, she accepted. She started to clear the table and he couldn't hold himself back anymore. He grabbed her hand and led her back to his bedroom. He noticed the small bag in the corner, hers. And he took his time because she wasn't going anywhere.