08-27-2013, 03:40 PM
Vicious little vixen wasn’t she?
Jaxen liked her.
He took a deep, satisfying breath -- the sort that filled his chest with pleased resolve -- and made no effort to avert his gaze when she bared just enough inner thigh to tease him into wanting to see more.
Bravo Kallisti.
The self-amused smirk only deepened with her accompanying question. He entertained the answer like sinking into the pillows and giving himself over to the whim of a woman begging to have her way with him.
“Oh I think you know your way around a man’s drink.”
Jaxen waved, half-permitting and half-gesturing that she get on with it. Of course, the accompanying smirk radiated his playful mood. Which truly was authentic for once. He’d heard of Kallisti’s entertainment, but had the intelligent intention to keep his anticipations low. So far, this was a pleasant coup of expectation.
At least she guessed right. A glass of straight vodka. A squeeze of lime. Ice. Anything else in the glass and the man drinking it wasn’t a real russian. Tolerance could be built, but vodka was in his blood. Jaxen could drink a couple fifths and still drive home afterward--more than enough to leave other men wasted. Like his father before him, the only person who could tell when he was drunk or not was his mother. Which was the sort of insight that sent the young rebel to the smog of Mumbai at the age of sixteen.
Again, Oriena toyed with the proprieties of service, and a spike of irritation filtered across his expression. She was pulling the strings, and for what was already bought and paid, he was forced to chase after. But the flash was gone almost as soon as it appeared.
He laughed, accepting the tug, for now. He could abide a few jibes, assuming that Oriena knew what she was getting into--that he was going to want something in return for such mockery. Jaxen was one to bide his time, a man of immense patience, especially when a payoff loomed; he couldn't do what he did otherwise. With her, though, he was beginning to expect something more: more than what Kallisti was willing to advertise.
From relaxed posturing, he slid closer to her. She was tall and languid, much like himself in that regard. The lighting caught every facet of her arm and dressed her curves with tantalizing shadow and hue as it did his own. Jaxen hovered nearly above her now and explored the scent of her perfume, the sheen of her hair, and the cut of her dress though he remained seated and barely moved more than a few inches to do so. He could court the edge of appropriate boundaries as well, and assumed it was welcome. Honestly. From Jaxen. Who wouldn’t welcome it?
“No,”
his answer rolled with amusement. Sitting close, he studied the paleness of her eyes yet soft as a rose petal on her skin, he lightly grazed her forearm from the elbow down to her wrist where a deft roll of his fingers suddenly stole the glass from her hand without ever breaking their gaze. He brought it to his lips and leaned back against comforts of their booth. “Its my first time. You’ll have to show me what to do.”
Good, russian vodka, thin and clear as ice, and just as cold crossed his lips. The first drink seared glaciers down his throat, but the pain was invigorating, demanding and conquering as a naked plunge in the frozen winter lakes of his homeland.
Edited by Jaxen Marveet, Aug 27 2013, 03:44 PM.
Jaxen liked her.
He took a deep, satisfying breath -- the sort that filled his chest with pleased resolve -- and made no effort to avert his gaze when she bared just enough inner thigh to tease him into wanting to see more.
Bravo Kallisti.
The self-amused smirk only deepened with her accompanying question. He entertained the answer like sinking into the pillows and giving himself over to the whim of a woman begging to have her way with him.
“Oh I think you know your way around a man’s drink.”
Jaxen waved, half-permitting and half-gesturing that she get on with it. Of course, the accompanying smirk radiated his playful mood. Which truly was authentic for once. He’d heard of Kallisti’s entertainment, but had the intelligent intention to keep his anticipations low. So far, this was a pleasant coup of expectation.
At least she guessed right. A glass of straight vodka. A squeeze of lime. Ice. Anything else in the glass and the man drinking it wasn’t a real russian. Tolerance could be built, but vodka was in his blood. Jaxen could drink a couple fifths and still drive home afterward--more than enough to leave other men wasted. Like his father before him, the only person who could tell when he was drunk or not was his mother. Which was the sort of insight that sent the young rebel to the smog of Mumbai at the age of sixteen.
Again, Oriena toyed with the proprieties of service, and a spike of irritation filtered across his expression. She was pulling the strings, and for what was already bought and paid, he was forced to chase after. But the flash was gone almost as soon as it appeared.
He laughed, accepting the tug, for now. He could abide a few jibes, assuming that Oriena knew what she was getting into--that he was going to want something in return for such mockery. Jaxen was one to bide his time, a man of immense patience, especially when a payoff loomed; he couldn't do what he did otherwise. With her, though, he was beginning to expect something more: more than what Kallisti was willing to advertise.
From relaxed posturing, he slid closer to her. She was tall and languid, much like himself in that regard. The lighting caught every facet of her arm and dressed her curves with tantalizing shadow and hue as it did his own. Jaxen hovered nearly above her now and explored the scent of her perfume, the sheen of her hair, and the cut of her dress though he remained seated and barely moved more than a few inches to do so. He could court the edge of appropriate boundaries as well, and assumed it was welcome. Honestly. From Jaxen. Who wouldn’t welcome it?
“No,”
his answer rolled with amusement. Sitting close, he studied the paleness of her eyes yet soft as a rose petal on her skin, he lightly grazed her forearm from the elbow down to her wrist where a deft roll of his fingers suddenly stole the glass from her hand without ever breaking their gaze. He brought it to his lips and leaned back against comforts of their booth. “Its my first time. You’ll have to show me what to do.”
Good, russian vodka, thin and clear as ice, and just as cold crossed his lips. The first drink seared glaciers down his throat, but the pain was invigorating, demanding and conquering as a naked plunge in the frozen winter lakes of his homeland.
Edited by Jaxen Marveet, Aug 27 2013, 03:44 PM.