10-03-2013, 01:26 PM
His mind worked twelve steps ahead of his limbs. Which was nothing new, of course. Evil genius and all.
The look in Ori's eyes reminded Jaxen he was playing with fire, but he swept his hands fearlessly through the flame. Pleasingly, she came and went at his beckoning. More, she fit in the story of their choreography like a second skin.
Every twist and bend reminded him how much he despised his childhood. Most of it anyway. The svelte man carousing around the stage now was the product of a society mother. Moscow ballet dancers were the city's proud athletes. Those of the stage were sculptures of humans, gods, not men to be judged effeminate. If anything, every time his palms cupped places on Oriena's body he might not otherwise have access, Jaxen was reminded they may in fact be geniuses.
Mom always said someday he'd appreciate those eight years. Turns out, the moment Ori hungrily drew his weight upon her, he decided every single torturous hour on his toes was worth it.
The song ended, but Jaxen was deaf to the audience's reactions. Short of booing them off the stage, which would be quite rude, his entire world consisted of the sickle of a collarbone, the circle of a mouth, and the dare of pale eyes.
They were a provocative combination of steam and ice. His shirt clung to his back, but Ori's fingers glazed painful nails down his chest. He couldn't help but smile at her insult, mind instantly twisting her words to his own mood. "Is that a request?"
he mouthed in her ear.
Jax hovered there a moment long, panting, and letting himself enjoy Ori's gripping desire. She wanted him. No, needed him. At that moment, with all the guilty intensity of a trickster caught red-handed at his game, the triumph of the night would be Oriena's nibbling a single word on his ear, begging: 'please'. He had chills just thinking about it.
Or maybe the chills were there all along.
He hopped nimbly from the stage without so much as addressing the audience. Or helping Oriena to her feet. After all that work, he deserved a break. And she had two arms and legs -- very flexible ones -- to get herself up.
Shit tucked under one arm, he ended up back at his table, glistening with exertion and smirking until the realization his cold drink was now watered down vodka momentarily turned down his mouth. Thankfully, Jon had a mostly full glass in easy reach. And Jax was a master at sweeping a drink out of someone's hand. And women off their feet, apparently. Or taking pretty much anything he wanted before they could protest.
"No contest,"
he smirked approvingly, toes waggling on the cold tile playfully underfoot. "Round three?"
He asked both players, brows lifted suggestively.
The look in Ori's eyes reminded Jaxen he was playing with fire, but he swept his hands fearlessly through the flame. Pleasingly, she came and went at his beckoning. More, she fit in the story of their choreography like a second skin.
Every twist and bend reminded him how much he despised his childhood. Most of it anyway. The svelte man carousing around the stage now was the product of a society mother. Moscow ballet dancers were the city's proud athletes. Those of the stage were sculptures of humans, gods, not men to be judged effeminate. If anything, every time his palms cupped places on Oriena's body he might not otherwise have access, Jaxen was reminded they may in fact be geniuses.
Mom always said someday he'd appreciate those eight years. Turns out, the moment Ori hungrily drew his weight upon her, he decided every single torturous hour on his toes was worth it.
The song ended, but Jaxen was deaf to the audience's reactions. Short of booing them off the stage, which would be quite rude, his entire world consisted of the sickle of a collarbone, the circle of a mouth, and the dare of pale eyes.
They were a provocative combination of steam and ice. His shirt clung to his back, but Ori's fingers glazed painful nails down his chest. He couldn't help but smile at her insult, mind instantly twisting her words to his own mood. "Is that a request?"
he mouthed in her ear.
Jax hovered there a moment long, panting, and letting himself enjoy Ori's gripping desire. She wanted him. No, needed him. At that moment, with all the guilty intensity of a trickster caught red-handed at his game, the triumph of the night would be Oriena's nibbling a single word on his ear, begging: 'please'. He had chills just thinking about it.
Or maybe the chills were there all along.
He hopped nimbly from the stage without so much as addressing the audience. Or helping Oriena to her feet. After all that work, he deserved a break. And she had two arms and legs -- very flexible ones -- to get herself up.
Shit tucked under one arm, he ended up back at his table, glistening with exertion and smirking until the realization his cold drink was now watered down vodka momentarily turned down his mouth. Thankfully, Jon had a mostly full glass in easy reach. And Jax was a master at sweeping a drink out of someone's hand. And women off their feet, apparently. Or taking pretty much anything he wanted before they could protest.
"No contest,"
he smirked approvingly, toes waggling on the cold tile playfully underfoot. "Round three?"
He asked both players, brows lifted suggestively.