10-02-2013, 06:56 PM
An uncommitted shrug answered his criticism of her dancer’s attire. Such decisions had little to do with her anyway, and no defensive wall defended her obligation to Kallisti; the place was popular for a reason, whether one rich bastard in a city of rich bastards agreed or not. Neither did she pay much mind to the disgruntled calls of those whose view they blocked. She watched Jaxen; or, more specifically, she watched him begin to strip. Little surprise registered on her expression, a skilful mask that refuted being caught off guard. Even if she was.
Her gaze lingered on his bare feet, though made a languorous trail back up to his face. You’ve got to be joking me. Dancing in a strip-club was one thing; what she was rapidly beginning to suspect he had in mind was quite another. It wasn’t her fucking forfeit, after all, and despite her ownership of Kallisti she was and had never been among its stage attractions. Audacious fucker, wasn’t he.
Ori was a sucker for that kind of bullshit.
Cold delight lit the diamond cut of her gaze, if you looked beyond the hands she had planted on her hips and an intensity to her manner that suggested displeasure. It was his wink that settled the brief flash of ire – not that even then she would have backed down from a presented challenge. Whatever her thoughts though, good or ill, she remained silent.
At Jaxen’s direction, the stage crew looked dubious askance at Karmen, who in turn glanced at Ori, face hard and full of what the fuck are you doing? Of course that only sharpened her desire for this stupidity further, and finally carved a darkly devious smile from her smooth expression. A permissive tip of her shoulder relayed the message back, and Karmen must have relented because the lights adjusted like Jaxen had been the one to call the shots.
Oriena was game. Walking blind into the unknown offered a persuasive thrill, one she had absolutely no intention of denying – even at cost, and even if it meant putting faith in someone like Jaxen. She’d not be forgiving if he made her look foolish, and she didn’t entirely trust that he wouldn’t, but that kind of self-preserving restraint was not in her nature. She preferred revenge to caution. And the power blazed a trail of invincibility only fuelled by the alcohol she had consumed; a potent armour.
On the stage she retained her hold on that power. She was being needlessly reckless, and somewhere in the back of her mind Cara’s warnings rang a distant echo. But if there were another in here with the same gift, she would have sensed it; and she was only holding it, not using it. There was nothing to betray her, and it galled her to hide from phantoms; she would let go because she wanted to, not because she had to. When Jaxen tugged her in, breaking the spell of those thoughts, her palms lay against the flat of his stomach, and the thumbnail of one hand scored a faint trail against his skin.
Oriena was not shy. Confidence wrapped the most mundane of her movements, and the watching eyes of the audience, though she paid them no heed, brushed at her skin like kisses. Her body was a tool, one she made full use of when mood or motive suited her. Charming a man to bed was not difficult; the kick was in captivation, in wrapping attention so tight it never strayed. Men were such visual creatures, and Ori was accustomed to getting what she wanted; who she wanted. Pandering to the desires of an audience - an audience in her club – was little different. But she wasn’t a dancer - certainly not in the way it quickly became apparent Jaxen was a dancer, and it left her utterly at his mercy. If Jon’s strings were whispered and metaphorical, then Jaxen’s stung tight and forceful. Necessary control, granted, because without it she’d have been cast adrift. Didn’t mean she wouldn’t even the score later, though there was an undeniable allure in the domination. In hands that knew exactly what they were doing.
No dancer, and no acrobat either. An actress, though; that deception was like a second skin. She caught onto the story quickly enough, aided by recognition of the song he’d chosen, and she sank into the role effortlessly. No inhibition marred her performance; no half measures. Raw lust. Desperation. Regret and pain. Aggressive hunger. Tender longing. Her grip on the power honed her sense of timing, and she reacted intuitively to his cues. Not that it was entirely fabrication on her part; not when he crawled inch by inch up her body, every touch against flesh amplified a thousand fold. She was dying for retribution. Or maybe reciprocation; the vodka hazed that part.
The tease and surrender continued, until that final move. Ori could feel the warmth of his breath against her neck, the slick heat of his skin, the shadowed promise of weight if he lowered a little further. A low vibration of laughter left her throat, almost a purr. She imagined he would be smiling, the predator allowed so close to her jugular. “Fucker,”
she murmured, half accusation, half playful submission. The shades of power-wrought fingertips marked a path down his chest like nails; she didn’t suppose he’d notice her hands hadn’t moved, not until a few moments later anyway, when, on point with the music, her fingers tangled into the fabric of his pants and urged his hips down.
Her gaze lingered on his bare feet, though made a languorous trail back up to his face. You’ve got to be joking me. Dancing in a strip-club was one thing; what she was rapidly beginning to suspect he had in mind was quite another. It wasn’t her fucking forfeit, after all, and despite her ownership of Kallisti she was and had never been among its stage attractions. Audacious fucker, wasn’t he.
Ori was a sucker for that kind of bullshit.
Cold delight lit the diamond cut of her gaze, if you looked beyond the hands she had planted on her hips and an intensity to her manner that suggested displeasure. It was his wink that settled the brief flash of ire – not that even then she would have backed down from a presented challenge. Whatever her thoughts though, good or ill, she remained silent.
At Jaxen’s direction, the stage crew looked dubious askance at Karmen, who in turn glanced at Ori, face hard and full of what the fuck are you doing? Of course that only sharpened her desire for this stupidity further, and finally carved a darkly devious smile from her smooth expression. A permissive tip of her shoulder relayed the message back, and Karmen must have relented because the lights adjusted like Jaxen had been the one to call the shots.
Oriena was game. Walking blind into the unknown offered a persuasive thrill, one she had absolutely no intention of denying – even at cost, and even if it meant putting faith in someone like Jaxen. She’d not be forgiving if he made her look foolish, and she didn’t entirely trust that he wouldn’t, but that kind of self-preserving restraint was not in her nature. She preferred revenge to caution. And the power blazed a trail of invincibility only fuelled by the alcohol she had consumed; a potent armour.
On the stage she retained her hold on that power. She was being needlessly reckless, and somewhere in the back of her mind Cara’s warnings rang a distant echo. But if there were another in here with the same gift, she would have sensed it; and she was only holding it, not using it. There was nothing to betray her, and it galled her to hide from phantoms; she would let go because she wanted to, not because she had to. When Jaxen tugged her in, breaking the spell of those thoughts, her palms lay against the flat of his stomach, and the thumbnail of one hand scored a faint trail against his skin.
Oriena was not shy. Confidence wrapped the most mundane of her movements, and the watching eyes of the audience, though she paid them no heed, brushed at her skin like kisses. Her body was a tool, one she made full use of when mood or motive suited her. Charming a man to bed was not difficult; the kick was in captivation, in wrapping attention so tight it never strayed. Men were such visual creatures, and Ori was accustomed to getting what she wanted; who she wanted. Pandering to the desires of an audience - an audience in her club – was little different. But she wasn’t a dancer - certainly not in the way it quickly became apparent Jaxen was a dancer, and it left her utterly at his mercy. If Jon’s strings were whispered and metaphorical, then Jaxen’s stung tight and forceful. Necessary control, granted, because without it she’d have been cast adrift. Didn’t mean she wouldn’t even the score later, though there was an undeniable allure in the domination. In hands that knew exactly what they were doing.
No dancer, and no acrobat either. An actress, though; that deception was like a second skin. She caught onto the story quickly enough, aided by recognition of the song he’d chosen, and she sank into the role effortlessly. No inhibition marred her performance; no half measures. Raw lust. Desperation. Regret and pain. Aggressive hunger. Tender longing. Her grip on the power honed her sense of timing, and she reacted intuitively to his cues. Not that it was entirely fabrication on her part; not when he crawled inch by inch up her body, every touch against flesh amplified a thousand fold. She was dying for retribution. Or maybe reciprocation; the vodka hazed that part.
The tease and surrender continued, until that final move. Ori could feel the warmth of his breath against her neck, the slick heat of his skin, the shadowed promise of weight if he lowered a little further. A low vibration of laughter left her throat, almost a purr. She imagined he would be smiling, the predator allowed so close to her jugular. “Fucker,”
she murmured, half accusation, half playful submission. The shades of power-wrought fingertips marked a path down his chest like nails; she didn’t suppose he’d notice her hands hadn’t moved, not until a few moments later anyway, when, on point with the music, her fingers tangled into the fabric of his pants and urged his hips down.
![[Image: orianderis.jpg]](http://thefirstage.org/wp-content/uploads/2020/09/orianderis.jpg)