Those cherry red lips parted into a smile that summoned Ryker’s attention like a moth to the flame, but it wasn’t makeup nor the plump mounds that he saw when he looked at her. It stirred the very word she uttered in his chest, images that were they known, the so-called strong arms along the wall would shoot him in the head and toss his ass in the dumpster. Or they would try.. Ryker’s knife was still folded in his pocket.
Instead, his attention slid from her smile down to the way her hands trailed his arms. They would find no tattoos, nothing at all but the curled webbing of wrinkled flesh beneath the sleeves. He wore no ring, no jewelry. Nothing was particularly identifiable about him at all but for the most obvious - a body once subjected to horrors of a fire survived. And Ryker was a survivor.
She did well to not curl those cherry lips into distaste when she found the weight of such scarring, and her pressure upon his flesh may as well have hooked barbs into the muscle beneath, tugging him forward. For indeed he sat up, letting her explore until he slid to the very edge of his seat, positioning himself to invite her to seek further still. He was going to tip her very well if things continued as they had.
“Saint Basil — one and the same.” He replied with all the conviction of heated roleplaying between lovers. His eyes, one clear and blue, the other opaque as though partially blinded, roamed her body. He didn’t touch her, though he did stroke the feather boa wrapping her neck until it twined around his hand like a rope.
“You know the penance for lust?” A tug and the boa slipped free of her neck, and with it, he demonstrated wrapping it around his own wrists to signal what he wanted her to do. Afterward, let it fall from his grasp and pat his knee as if truly expecting her to lay across his lap to take her due.
And then, he sank into the seat and a sinister smile touched his lips for the first time.
Instead, his attention slid from her smile down to the way her hands trailed his arms. They would find no tattoos, nothing at all but the curled webbing of wrinkled flesh beneath the sleeves. He wore no ring, no jewelry. Nothing was particularly identifiable about him at all but for the most obvious - a body once subjected to horrors of a fire survived. And Ryker was a survivor.
She did well to not curl those cherry lips into distaste when she found the weight of such scarring, and her pressure upon his flesh may as well have hooked barbs into the muscle beneath, tugging him forward. For indeed he sat up, letting her explore until he slid to the very edge of his seat, positioning himself to invite her to seek further still. He was going to tip her very well if things continued as they had.
“Saint Basil — one and the same.” He replied with all the conviction of heated roleplaying between lovers. His eyes, one clear and blue, the other opaque as though partially blinded, roamed her body. He didn’t touch her, though he did stroke the feather boa wrapping her neck until it twined around his hand like a rope.
“You know the penance for lust?” A tug and the boa slipped free of her neck, and with it, he demonstrated wrapping it around his own wrists to signal what he wanted her to do. Afterward, let it fall from his grasp and pat his knee as if truly expecting her to lay across his lap to take her due.
And then, he sank into the seat and a sinister smile touched his lips for the first time.