The One Thing
"Locke," she says. "Fucking Locke."
And he can't help but wince, not because of the truth of it, but because he can hear it in the petulant, affronted tones of her voice; he knows what's coming, and much as he wants to step back from it, from her, as he's told himself he would-
She turns and her eyes are faintly red, as though she'd cry if it wouldn't run her mascara, and her fingers brush his arm.
"Are you doing this just to hurt me, Boone? Is this your idea of punishment?"
He sighs, disgusted, with her, with himself, but doesn't attempt to evade her lightly tracing hands; her touch is like a narcotic that seeps through the skin and slides into every secret place he'd never known he had until she awakened him to them. His love for her is dark, obsessive, endless, and one night wasn't nearly long enough to sate the demon that drives him. So he says in reply, in reaction, "Christ, Shannon, no."
"Boone..." Her voice is an ache of longing; her nails bite down and she's so close, close enough to...
His mouth is on hers, and he doesn't know who kissed whom first, only that her mouth is hot and wet and avid, and her tongue, oh, god, her tongue. He kisses her hard and allows his teeth to scrape sharply over her lower lip in admonishment as he pulls them both to the sand.
He didn't want this, even when he did, and he pushes thoughts of Locke and Sayid and Boone away, because this all about Shannon, and for once, he wants to make her feel it.
She gasps against his mouth, his thrusting, plunging fingers, and he acknowledges the futility of trying to resist, trying to forget.
Because you can't do either with Shannon. Not when she's the one thing you've always wanted, and know you'll never really have.