01-21-2019, 01:29 AM
Jaxen wasn’t a machine that enter an attractive woman and he immediately humped her. He preferred the slow burn. Maybe that was why Oriena’s claws were dug so deep into his skin. A mere flicker of her eyes and he was taunted to challenges that Jaxen was happy to meet. Neither was he dead. Far from it. Life pulsed his veins that put him top of the city tonight. Riding an out of control horse, he wanted to scream with the thrill, take second by second as though any of them might be his last. To shout defiance for the inevitable and laugh at the ploys of fate; he was far from dead. The woman hovering before his face knew the flush of heat across the skin, the way he settled all the more comfortably into the cushions in acceptance of her weight. Amusement purred deep within. “Yes I can channel,” he whispered as wind blushed the back of her neck with teasing embrace. She wasn’t his usual type, that was sure, but neither was Oriena, and Jaxen freely admitted how tightly she wound his guts in her fists.
She didn’t want to share a name. Not unusual, but not common either. “I’ll call you..,” his eyes roamed the porcelain of her skin and obsidian of her hair. “Toma.”* If she knew Russian at all, she might find the Russian name humorous for its glaringly literal translation. Otherwise, Jaxen laid a hand on her thigh, savoring the softness of the dress between them, pleasantly surprised by the sinew beneath.
Just to help her out, he brought the drink and all but put it to her lips on her behalf. There was no point wasting a drop when every sip was a $50,000 swallow. A tingle softened the usual sharpness of his mind in a way that reminded him of Dublin. Toma wasn’t a blood-sucking monster, though. If she was going to bite, she likely would have done so by now.
A haze settled in his mind, and he let the power slip away, finding the concentration required to conquer it too much for the moment. He put another chunk of change to his lips, ice prickling the tongue, oblivious to Toma’s choice to partake or not.
*(Russian) “From the East”
She didn’t want to share a name. Not unusual, but not common either. “I’ll call you..,” his eyes roamed the porcelain of her skin and obsidian of her hair. “Toma.”* If she knew Russian at all, she might find the Russian name humorous for its glaringly literal translation. Otherwise, Jaxen laid a hand on her thigh, savoring the softness of the dress between them, pleasantly surprised by the sinew beneath.
Just to help her out, he brought the drink and all but put it to her lips on her behalf. There was no point wasting a drop when every sip was a $50,000 swallow. A tingle softened the usual sharpness of his mind in a way that reminded him of Dublin. Toma wasn’t a blood-sucking monster, though. If she was going to bite, she likely would have done so by now.
A haze settled in his mind, and he let the power slip away, finding the concentration required to conquer it too much for the moment. He put another chunk of change to his lips, ice prickling the tongue, oblivious to Toma’s choice to partake or not.
*(Russian) “From the East”