Fur-trimmed coat, dyed blonde hair that brushed her elbows. Legs closeted in tight leather and denim, slyly parted in invitation. The girl was leaning against a motorbike — his motorbike — with such casual indifference that he almost smiled.
Almost.
He let the diner door close behind him with a loud jangle of bells. The streets were empty, but they often were in this small town. He walked over, asked where she was headed. A faint breeze breathed life into the drying puddles at their feet.
“Anywhere but here,” she drawled. Perfect voice, low and smoky. Must have taken weeks of practice.
His tongue traced the outline of his teeth. “Anywhere at all?”
The shrug gave her away. Too innocent for those clothes.
He couldn’t resist playing her game. Leant forward, arms on either side of those long, long legs. Let his breath draw a line across her cheek. “You think you’re ready?”
The shiver said no. Her mouth said yes.
This was how he loved her: nervous, indecisive, a flower on the cusp of bloom. If she came with him that frailty would be lost forever.
He leant closer still. Stubble grazed her delicate cheekbone. “You get those clothes in a brothel?” he whispered.
The heat of her blush warmed his cheek. “I… I thought you’d like them.”
He drew back, let the cold wind seep back into her bones. “Not on you,” he said. She deserved better. One last long look. He breathed in the curve of her jaw, the honey-warm eyes. He should have left town weeks ago.
“Take me with you,” she begged.
He shook his head, gently pulled her off the motorbike. Slung a leg over, got the engine rumbling. “You don’t have what I want,” he said, wistful. “Not any more.”
And then, because he had to be harsh, because he had to be cruel lest she spend the rest of her life pining for him, he lied: “I only sleep with virgins.”
By the time he left town she was just a name, another name on a long list of heartbreaks.
To enter, simply 
