10-25-2013, 08:59 AM
[From Kings of the Castle]
You know. It didn't bother him a bit that Oriena declined his palm. She buckled in the end; Jaxen didn't care about the means.
Last, tie dangling around his neck like some skinny scarf, he followed her lead until smooth strides carried him past her brisk pace.
If the club was thinly populated when he arrived earlier that evening, now a line of patrons wound around the corner. Valets and bouncers alike took stock of their exit, but neither gave much note that their owner was one of the two. A curious note flickered across his brow. Why hide her power? He had to assume it was for the same reason he hid his fame behind a litany of pseudonyms and false aliases.
He slipped the ferryman some incentive, but no Lambo turned the corner -- course he lost his last one in a bet, so it would be a while before he got around to replacing it. Maybe with something more old-school next time, like an Aston Martin: the James Bond kind of class-act. Neither did a blacked-out towncar pick them up. It was a cab. Regular, old fashioned, good and anonymous cab. He was suppose to be hiding, but he wasn't too sure from who; an annoyingly undiscovered detail.
Since Oriena was the kind of goddess that oozed old-fashioned Lady, Jaxen stopped himself from opening her door with a mischievous grin. The broad could pull her own damn handle. Besides, her hand could use the warm up. Don't want to sprain anything later. His grin beamed with sinful pomposity.
He did, however, take some liberties once they were nestled inside. He laid his hand on her knee and absently fingered the edge of her dress for a while, completely and innocently oblivious to any and all shifty grazing of her thigh; not that it compared to the curves his hands gripped during the dance. Thrumming with power, never had a woman's skin felt so velvety before. He was down right anxious to toy with the implications. To push the boundaries and see how far the thrill extended; particularly how far he could ride the high until losing control completely. The game wasn't to win: it was to manipulate convention as far as he could primarily to see if he could get away with it. The same incentive was how he managed to single-handedly steal a jet right out of its bunker and zip to Prague last year. Or how a few antique pieces out of the Austrian Ecclesiastical Treasury came to be scattered around his otherwise ultra modern home. All but one: the Ainkhürn. The so-called 'unicorn horn' infamous for magical properties came home just because he fucking liked it. Now it was mounted over his bed like some abstract - and priceless - art piece. And not at all symbolic. If a guy is going to mount phallic pieces over his bed, he might as well do it as sarcastically as possible. Visitors to the room always commented on what a surprising design element it was. Fucking hilarious.
Considering the building they entered, Jaxen took in the extra bodies guarding the lobby with passing interest. Usually, he welcomed the hand-and-foot service, but tonight he was content to slide on an elevator without drawing much attention. But the temptation became too much, and sped by the sense of invincibility, he probed the building's doormen for the low down. They obliged without hesitation. Jaxen was one ally they clearly wanted on their side: he profits, they profit. A win-win situation for all involved, a system Jax had no problem exploiting.
"Looks like there's a Privy Party on the top floor,"
he informed Oriena with a shrug once the elevator doors cloaked them in privacy. He didn't elaborate on which member of the Sphere was sucking all the fun to the top of the building, but if Oriena was at all informed, she'd already know. Well. Not all the fun.
As promised, however, they stopped at his floor. Even if they did intend on crashing the party, he wanted a change of clothes. The dance, fucking awesome dance, had worked up a sweat. If Oriena was interested, a selection of women's wardrobe options was only a buzz away. The lobby did have an array of Fashion Week's best selections on display downstairs. All part of the perks of living in luxury: on site designer-wear at residents' beck and call.
The security system to his place was top-notch. He'd know, but a few moments after disarming it, he strode in, flipped on the lighting system, highlighted for evening's flattery, for both interior and exterior views alike, and turned with humorous welcome. "Home sweet home."
Make yourself comfortable, she was really going to enjoy this.
You know. It didn't bother him a bit that Oriena declined his palm. She buckled in the end; Jaxen didn't care about the means.
Last, tie dangling around his neck like some skinny scarf, he followed her lead until smooth strides carried him past her brisk pace.
If the club was thinly populated when he arrived earlier that evening, now a line of patrons wound around the corner. Valets and bouncers alike took stock of their exit, but neither gave much note that their owner was one of the two. A curious note flickered across his brow. Why hide her power? He had to assume it was for the same reason he hid his fame behind a litany of pseudonyms and false aliases.
He slipped the ferryman some incentive, but no Lambo turned the corner -- course he lost his last one in a bet, so it would be a while before he got around to replacing it. Maybe with something more old-school next time, like an Aston Martin: the James Bond kind of class-act. Neither did a blacked-out towncar pick them up. It was a cab. Regular, old fashioned, good and anonymous cab. He was suppose to be hiding, but he wasn't too sure from who; an annoyingly undiscovered detail.
Since Oriena was the kind of goddess that oozed old-fashioned Lady, Jaxen stopped himself from opening her door with a mischievous grin. The broad could pull her own damn handle. Besides, her hand could use the warm up. Don't want to sprain anything later. His grin beamed with sinful pomposity.
He did, however, take some liberties once they were nestled inside. He laid his hand on her knee and absently fingered the edge of her dress for a while, completely and innocently oblivious to any and all shifty grazing of her thigh; not that it compared to the curves his hands gripped during the dance. Thrumming with power, never had a woman's skin felt so velvety before. He was down right anxious to toy with the implications. To push the boundaries and see how far the thrill extended; particularly how far he could ride the high until losing control completely. The game wasn't to win: it was to manipulate convention as far as he could primarily to see if he could get away with it. The same incentive was how he managed to single-handedly steal a jet right out of its bunker and zip to Prague last year. Or how a few antique pieces out of the Austrian Ecclesiastical Treasury came to be scattered around his otherwise ultra modern home. All but one: the Ainkhürn. The so-called 'unicorn horn' infamous for magical properties came home just because he fucking liked it. Now it was mounted over his bed like some abstract - and priceless - art piece. And not at all symbolic. If a guy is going to mount phallic pieces over his bed, he might as well do it as sarcastically as possible. Visitors to the room always commented on what a surprising design element it was. Fucking hilarious.
Considering the building they entered, Jaxen took in the extra bodies guarding the lobby with passing interest. Usually, he welcomed the hand-and-foot service, but tonight he was content to slide on an elevator without drawing much attention. But the temptation became too much, and sped by the sense of invincibility, he probed the building's doormen for the low down. They obliged without hesitation. Jaxen was one ally they clearly wanted on their side: he profits, they profit. A win-win situation for all involved, a system Jax had no problem exploiting.
"Looks like there's a Privy Party on the top floor,"
he informed Oriena with a shrug once the elevator doors cloaked them in privacy. He didn't elaborate on which member of the Sphere was sucking all the fun to the top of the building, but if Oriena was at all informed, she'd already know. Well. Not all the fun.
As promised, however, they stopped at his floor. Even if they did intend on crashing the party, he wanted a change of clothes. The dance, fucking awesome dance, had worked up a sweat. If Oriena was interested, a selection of women's wardrobe options was only a buzz away. The lobby did have an array of Fashion Week's best selections on display downstairs. All part of the perks of living in luxury: on site designer-wear at residents' beck and call.
The security system to his place was top-notch. He'd know, but a few moments after disarming it, he strode in, flipped on the lighting system, highlighted for evening's flattery, for both interior and exterior views alike, and turned with humorous welcome. "Home sweet home."
Make yourself comfortable, she was really going to enjoy this.