Vincent Nightray does have a lovely smile, Lottie thinks; it's distractingly pretty, sort of saccharine in its sweetness, but that's fine because she knows damn well that it's all a lie.

Going into any sort of situation with Vincent Nightray and knowing that makes it at least a little bit easier.

Every time he invites her to his bed, she's annoyed all to hell, and he's smiling, so sweet and so pretty, even with a hand up her shirt. Men really are vile creatures – excluding her lord Glen, but Glen is an exception in all things – and Vincent is perhaps the vilest. But even if she thinks that, Lottie is also aware that Vincent is also, perhaps, the best lay she's ever had.

Certainly, several times that they have rolled about in fine linens, it was a fast, fleeting thing, meant only for release and resulting in both of them being bitten up and scratched all to hell. But on the occasion Vincent decides he wants to take his time, to enjoy his catch, Lottie is entirely taken off guard by how damnably good he is – the things his tongue can do when his face is buried between her legs like no other man would even consider, and god, she's reduced to little more than moans and whimpers in spite of all attempts to keep the sounds back otherwise.

Lottie wants him to stop this, but the words never form. Instead her hands are clawlike in his hair, twisting and pulling as her thighs spread wide, open and encouraging as he fucks her with that devilish tongue of his and leaves her writhing, panting, spent and twitching from climax before he's even opened his pants.

God, she hates him. Hates him hates him hates him.

But Lottie also wants him.

"Fuck me," she demands, breathless and so aroused it hurts, but does not plead. A man like this will never get to hear her plead.

But god, does she want, want, want.

And Vincent laughs, the bastard, but does as she tells him to and bears over her, each thrust making her clench and shudder and cling to his back, lips parted as she gasps for air toward the ceiling. His mouth is on one, full breast and a hand between them, touch so fucking perfect that Lottie comes again – a shuddering, trembling mess by the time Vincent is through with her, and she finds some satisfaction that it isn't Vincent's name on her lips: it's Glen's.

"Come inside me," is her final order, and the look he gives her is put out before he simply does it, probably figuring he can shove her down a flight of stairs later. Lottie doesn't care; she wraps herself up in her own fantasy well enough that she doesn't even hear the hiss of Gilbert's name on his lips – fucking sick puppy, this man is, but who is she to talk?

They stay like that for awhile before Lottie shoves him aside and rises to rifle through the bag she brings along, finds a bottle, and knocks it back without hesitation. Vincent pays her no mind, languid and sated for the moment on his bed, a fucking Botticelli angel if she's ever seen one.

God, she hates him.

"I'm leaving."

"Ah, no round two?" Vincent asks, airy and unconcerned.

The slam of his balcony door is her answer, and she leaves, sated and seething all the more for it.

She needs to torture someone.