[Rory] (123 not me!)
[Marc de Vogue] Chinatown vice district. At this late hour, the crowds here are all seeming with no good in mind. Humans are weak things, with lusts and desires, greed and needs. Chinatown delivers to them all, catering to the taste for flesh and sin of all kinds. It is hard to separate the people here, the distinction between those that come seeking the whispered promises of bliss (if only for the night) and those that move through it with other purpose. Perhaps it does not even matter much. The important thing is? If you have a need, this is the place to see it filled.
Narrow alleys create a cobweb between buildings that thrum with music and scents. The beat of music mixes with the low mumble of the crowds on the street. The scent of exotic foods mixing with the low, all to sweet smell of opium and other unnamed substances being consumed behind walls and in dark shadows. People here tend to not look to closely into those shadows and alleys, since what you accidentally see in a place such as this can be as life-threatening as actually stepping inside one of those places.
So perhaps it is not strange that when sounds of fighting erupt from one of those dark alleys, it draws little attention from the people passing by, the only reaction from them a slight quickening of step to get past and beyond, to get away from the sound of fist’s striking flesh, of the low muted grunts of pain.
[Rory] Chinatown is a good place to practice being sneaky – it’s just an unfortunate fact that Rory isn’t always very good at it, even with the aide of Fox. She could blame it on many things – the hair, which is bloodred and curls to DIE for – or the paleness of her skin, which makes her stand out even more, or the multitude of freckles, the green of her eyes…
…or her Rage. Thick and burning even under the slimmest of moons, though she seems curiously unaffected by it – controlling it with a negligent ease of one born to the task…
Either way, she’s not REALLy trying to hide now, because she’s gotten her hands on some chow mein, and is, instead, concentrating on feeding her hungry belly. Despite the scent of rain and thunder in the air, she doesn’t hide under a raincoat, but is dressed far more simply, in cut off shorts and a tank top – her backpack slung over her shoulders as if it weighs nothing. (…you’d be surprised…)
The vices don’t seem to appeal to her, as she wanders, using chopsticks like a native though she looks anything but… the sound of fighting though. That gets her attention, and without fear and with a healthy dose of curiosity, she approaches and enters the alley…
[Marc de Vogue] What strikes Rory first isn’t the smell of the alley (It reeks) nor the actual fight going on (More of a beating really). It is the lineage of one of the men. Tall (6’4), blonde and with the blood of kings and heroes [forbidden Fruit] of the past. He also appears to be the (victim) target of this small gathering. Two Asian men, both quite a bit shorter and stockier than the kin is assaulting him. One holding the young man from behind as the other strikes him, going for body shots. Shine of metal where the brass knuckles catch the weak light of the alley.
The taller of the two Asians deliver a blow that makes the tall young man’s knees buckle and he would have gone to the ground if not for the shorter, stronger man holding him up to give his partner another open shot. They do not seem to notice the red-head as she enters the alley, to intent on their (victim) target.
[Rory] Her brow furrows as the wave of Purity nearly slaps her across the face, actually taking a step back [forbidden!] when she realizes just what he is… who he could be. Kings and Queens fight to tell the tale of his lineage in his blood, singing the song of [insanity] heroism and strength.
And he’s the victim.
She drops her chow mein, and without second thought, approaches the group, grabbing the nearest Asian and pulling him away with a loud, single command.
“STOP!”
Single words are easier.
[Marc de Vogue] [Can I know you?]
Dice Rolled:[ 6 d10 ] 1, 2, 5, 7, 9, 9 (Botch x 1 at target 10)
[Marc de Vogue] There is the briefest of moments, just as Rory grabs the nearest Asian and pulls at him where it looks as if she is about to be struck. Then her Rage makes itself known, and Both Asians freeze up. The young man is dropped to his knees, coughing, one arm going to support himself to keep from landing face down, the other around his stomach.
The Asians shrink back from Rory, glancing to each other, and both seem in agreement. It is better to be elsewhere. With a last (baleful) look to the tall man, they start moving quickly out of the alley in the opposite direction from where Rory had come, quickly vanishing out of sight.
The young man coughs, muttering a low curse in a soft tongue.
“Merde…”
Then raises his head to find the reason for the stopped assault, and clear blue-green eyes land on the magnificent red-head. She certainly steals his attention. Not because of her Rage. His senses seem to dulled to register that at the moment, but her appearance. Not what he had expected in Chinatown. Hell, those blood-red curls he had never expected to find anywhere.
He stops himself from cursing again, and slowly begins to take to his feet. He seems quite steady despite the beating, and there is a lean feel to him that Rory could recognize. A certain stamina that exists within kin that makes them much more resilient then normal humans.
[Rory] The assailants look up at her and freeze, and she meets them with a glare – even taking a step closer, to insure that they will move, and move quickly, out of the alley. Only then… then she is alone with the purely bred fang…
She doesn’t reach down for him, doesn’t try to help him get up, but instead folds her arms over her chest and takes a step backwards, until her backpack thumps against the opposite wall. It’s almost as if she is trying to hide in the shadows there, and fade from view though it’s very clear that he sees her.
He’s steady enough, and her voice – when it comes – is achingly shy… yet concerned. “…ok?”
[Marc de Vogue] ”Yes… A little worse for wear…. But I will live.”
He does not take those blue-green eyes from her form even as she backs away. Surprise there perhaps? Emotion of some kind mixing with discomfort. He stretches, making a slight face, but then seems to relax slightly, and when he smiles at Rory, it seems as if he is the sun for all the warmth he directs at her.
“Not quite what one has in mind when thinking of coming to another rescue. It seems as if I was the damsel in distress, non? Thank you miss…?” His dialect soft, and not very strong even if he does roll the words a little in the French way of speaking.
His head slightly tilted as he glances down the alley where the Asian men disappeared, and then back to the fiery red. He seems utterly unafraid of her, despite her massive rage. Self-confident despite having just risen from that beating. A sense of his lineage, that he has the right to be here, and that the two men were the strangers.
[Rory] She chews absently on her lower lip, watching as he stretches, the slight face he makes, and then when he directs the sunshine of his smile on her…
..she blushes. She ducks her head to hide it behind those curls, teeth worrying over her lower lip as she scuffs the toe of her shoe against the dirty alley floor. She peeks up at him when he says he was a damsel in distress, her lips curling into the briefest, shyest of smiles, hidden away so very quickly behind her hair. He’s self confident, though he was just beaten. She is shy, though she could tear them all apart without thought. She is a total contradiction, this Full Moon.
He asks her name, subtly, and she offers it, just as softly as her previous question. “…Rory.”
[Marc de Vogue] ”Rory…”
He seems to taste the name, rolling it of his tongue with the soft French accent.
“Well Rory, thank you for coming to my help.”
He glances away from her, looking at the alley. Gaze stopping briefly at the dropped chow mein before returning to her form. He does not even try to hide the way he looks at her, appreciatively. He takes a step towards her, trying to catch her gaze with his own as she ducks her head.
“It seems my little trouble caused you to lose out on your meal. Come, I insist you let me make it up to you while I consider how to best repay my knight in fiery armor.”
He raises his arm, elbow bent, as if offering it to her in support. In truth, he seems just a little stiff himself, not surprising after the not so loving attention he had been given by the two Chinese.
[Rory] He says her name in a way entirely different than Ray does, but somehow the same too – like he’s tasting it, and finds it delicious. It makes her blush deepen, spreading visibly across her shoulders, under those freckles… He looks at her the same way Ray does too, and that certainly doesn’t help the blushing situation, at all. It makes one wonder if it spreads all over.
[it does – eventually]
She glances at the meal she lost, and then he’s insisting, and she’s nothing if not obedient to a purebred kin insisting something – even if she hesitates, just a touch. He tries to catch her gaze, and insist payment is needed, and she chews her lower lip in contemplation, before she slowly, carefully, steps from the wall and slides her fingers along the inside of his elbow. Her touch is warm, heated by the rage that fuels her blood, even as she softly agrees – as in the end, it’s the rumbling of her belly that audibly decides for her.
“…ok.”
She doesn’t seem to mind if he leans a bit more on her support than she’d ever have to on his… he was, after all, just beaten. But her touch remains shy, and timid, and almost… fearful. And she doesn’t ask his name. It would be presumptious.
[Marc de Vogue] She slides her fingers to the inside of his arm, and perhaps she is surprised to find hit other hand coming to rest over hers, trapping her hand (and the warmth of her skin) between his arm and hand. He offers her a wide smile and then walks out fo the alley with her. He does use her for support, but not overly much, just to hide the stiffness that knots up his middle.
“You are flushed Rory. Are you alright?”
She is also shy and blushing, and if anything it seems to draw his interest even further. He barely pays attention to the street as they walk along it. If he had, he might have noticed how the crowd flowed aside to let them pass, as if avoiding the couple, sensing that which the young man has completely missed it seems, the Rage of the woman at his side.
“There is a small place just down the street I have heard of. Good food and drink to cool off with and soothe aches.”
[Rory] She’s flushed. And his hand slides over hers, trapping it […in that she allows it, as she knows well and truly she could pull away at any moment… but she doesn’t] against the coolness of his arm, and starts to lead her out of the alley. She falls into step, even if she is just a touch behind him. He is in the lead, despite the rage within her…
He mentions that she’s flushed, and it serves to deepen the color, and have her ducking her head to hide behind the slide of her curls. He mentions a place down the street, and she finds herself unable to speak other than in monosyllables. “…ok.”
…it’s probably a good thing.
[Marc de Vogue] Quiet type, isn’t she? But Gaia knows Marc has ever let such a thing stop him. The unpleasantries of the alley as if they never happened (aside from the bruises hidden by that shirt, the stiffness of his body that will fade in an hour or two)
It seems natural for him to lead, and he does not even seem to notice that he is in fact doing so, his attention full on the woman by his side.
“It seems you have quite an auspicious timing. I do not know what my fate would have been had you not showed up Rory.”
The place he had in mind was indeed not far away. As for small? It is one of the more luxurious of the vice districts clubs. A fine restaurant with a dance club set in a large structure. There are doormen, and a line. Neither stops the young man. There is something about him that people tend to respond to, some charisma that makes them respond to him with ease. It makes bypassing lines a piece of cake. Now of course, they get past the line simply because no one dares speak up. It has little to do with Marc.
He leads her in, and with no effort he brings her into the dining area. A booth made available for them and Marc leads Rory to it, not accepting any protests from her as he bids her to sit, and then slides in opposite of her with a smile.
“Do you do this often? Rescue young men in distress I mean?”
She is given a menu, as is he, but he just shakes his head, ordering a drink instead.
[Rory] She follows, and then when he just keeps walking past the line, she stumbles a bit, pulling back, but not too much, as he simply doesn’t let that stop them. Her eyes widen, and she looks very much the deer caught in headlights as the crowd doesn’t even complain, and she’s suddenly shifting from pulling away to hovering close, pressing against him as she ducks her head, her shyness overtaking every other instinct…. it’s very much a fight or flight response, even if flight right now involves following him as he seems to know exactly what he’s doing and where he’s going…
She even trembles, her slender form all but visibly quaking against his arm as he leads her inside, and to a booth… her hand has tightened against his arm by this time, slender fingers deceptively strong as she likely bruises the flesh underneath in her blossoming borderline panic.
She swallows hard as he gestures for her to take a seat, not taking any protests. She glances around, quickly, and ducks her head, clearly not dressed for this type of establishment. Trapped, she slips the straps of her pack off, and slides into the booth, setting the pack on the floor under the table with a mysteriously heavy clinking clunk.
She blinks as a menu is suddenly before her, and she stares at it like it’s something foreign, and sets it down quickly as if it might burn her, tucking her hands into a nervously twisting bundle in her lap. Only belatedly does she realize he’s ordered a drink, and the waiter is looking at her impatiently. Mutely she shakes her head no, curls bouncing, as she bites her lower lip, ducking her head.
And then she remembers the question… which receives a slight shrug of her shoulder in reply…
[Marc de Vogue] [Smooth talking the nervous girl are we?]
Dice Rolled:[ 9 d10 ] 1, 1, 3, 3, 5, 6, 8, 8, 8, 10, 10, 10 (Success x 5 at target 6) Re-rolls: 3
[Marc de Vogue] If she bruises him? He does not complain or even stiffen up. If he notes her sudden closeness and the way she seems to tremble? There is no telling what he thinks, but he makes no sign of dislike for it. When she puts the menu down, he does raise a slim brow however, and he orders a drink for her as well, saying that they will wait with the food for now. When they are left alone, his gaze fall on Rory, and he watches her intently, taking in her appearance and the way she acts and reacts.
“You do not do this very often, do you? No fear. Trust me to guide you through it. It is the least I can do.”
He reaches out over the table, and despite the appearance of his hand (Manicured and well kept) there is a strength in him that might surprise.
“Take a deep breath. You are the most stunning creature to ever set foot in this place. It is their honor to have you as a guest, and they are grateful to be at your service. And I am blessed to have your company tonight.”
[Rory] He orders her a drink, and she doesn’t complain or ask for something different or anything else, simply allows him to do so. Her eyes, when she dares peek up, are wide and trying to take it all in, while sure someone’s going to throw her out at any moment. Ray always eased her into situations like this, prepared her, helped her get dressed […fucked her against the desk for pre-dinner dessert…], made her feel at ease. Marc is more like a bullet train, with her flailing for a handhold.
…a handhold which he offers, by reaching a well manicured hand across the table. She doesn’t answer the first question, as that much is obvious. Then he’s coaching her to take a breath (she does) and complimenting her, and she’s blushing again by the end of it all…
Softly, “You lound sike Ray…” She doesn’t seem to note the mixup in her words, as if she heard only what she intended to say, not what she actually voiced.
[Marc de Vogue] Marc was raised in the silver Fang courts. You learn swiftly there, and it pays to work around minor things such as strange speech or even obvious insanity. A little mix-up of words does hardly even register with the handsome kin.
“Only because of your presence Rory. It is hard not to be ones best around someone like yourself.”
He does not know of this Ray, nor does it much matter now. Not to Marc in any case. He does not try to hide the fact that he enjoys looking at the woman opposite of him, and the compliments are easy enough when they are true. His hand remain on her arm, gentle and strong.
“I would happily spend some time each night with those two unpleasant men, if it meant I would have the pleasure of you as my savior. Now, are you sure you are not hungry? I hear they serve excellent duck here.”
So casually charming and easy, it is hard to stay uncomfortable in Marc’s presence, even if he is quite direct and not at all ashamed for it. That self-confidence and boldness is almost catching.
“Will you let me order for you?”
[Rory] She blushes. It’s something real, and unplanned, unpracticed, and so very easily achieved by flowery words and compliments that she doesn’t deserve. His hand remains on her arm, gentle and strong – his touch cool against the heat that boils from the very coil of her.
He asks if she’s hungry, and her belly rumbles audibly to answer for her. It’s not easy to stay uncomfortable in his presence, yet somehow she manages. Years of [beatings] training has made her so very, very awkward in such situations. He further mentions duck, and she ducks her head to hide her smile, before she nods, just a little… she’ll let him order.
“ok..” It’s better than admitting she cannot read the menu.
[Marc de Vogue] ”Good.”
He raises his other hand, motioning the waiter for attention without ever looking away from Rory. The man approaches and Marc does indeed order the duck for her, dismissing the man as if he did not exist when it was done. He does take his hand from her arm then, slowly, brushing the tips of his fingers against her skin with the motion as he leans back. His smile still as warm as the sun.
“Tell me Rory, do you dance?”
Something in his look when he asks it, as if he knew what answer to expect.
[Rory] She couldn’t control the blush if she tried as his fingers linger, her body having a mind of its own in that regard. She bites her lip, and hides her reaction behind her curls, even as she absently reaches up to rub at the side of her nose, nervously.
He orders the duck, and she dares to peek up at the waiter as he disappears again, before she dares peek up at Marc. Who asks if she dances.
Her eyes widen and she shakes her head vigorously, curls bouncing as she presses back into the booth, and looks positively terrified that he might ask her to dance… people most certainly would notice her then, and for all her stand out qualities, she is so much more comfortable hidden in the shadows..
“Ohno..” softly murmured, even as his smile warms still more.
[Marc de Vogue] “Such a shame… But perhaps one I can remedy.”
His head tilting slightly, looking at her, watching her closely, as if reading her reactions, reading what lies beneath those red curls, and the blushes.
“I enjoy dancing. I will have to teach you… But not here I think. I would not make a very good show of it I am afraid, bruised as I am. Would you think me to forward if I asked your indulgence to do it in a more comfortable setting?”
The drinks arrive, and Marc wraps his fingers around the cold glass, taking a sip, and watches Rory over the rim, those clear blue-green eyes never straying long from the fianna in front of him.
[Rory] She shifts in her seat, as he continues to watch her, something she is sort of used too, though usually with far more revulsion. He makes her nervous the same way Ray does, and talks very similar to the ShadowLord she let wine and dine her anytime he wishes. She lifts a hand to tuck back her curls behind her ear, only to have them spring free again into their more natural disarray.
The drinks arrive, and he takes his first, never pulling his gaze away from her. She reaches for her drink, and nudges it at first, catching it quickly half a second later, saving herself -and the table cloth – from spill. She lifts the glass in both her hands, and then to her lips for a tentative sip, unsure what he’d ordered for her. She dares to peek up at him breifly, again, as he clearly expects an answer.
and he gets one, in the form of her blush, and a shrug of her slim shoulder. She’s not quite sure what she thinks of him, really. Which reminds her, she doesn’t even know his name… “Who are you?”
Some things come out easier than others…
[Marc de Vogue] He blinks, and for a moment, she can see a little surprise in him, as if he completely forgot he had not given his name. He shakes his head a little and laughs, sounding amused and a little embarrassed.
“Forgive me. It seems I am more taken by you then I had thought. “
He is quite sincere when he apologizes to her, and when he gives his introduction, it is without (much) flourish.
“My name is Marc de Vogue, Count of Foix of southern France, and I am more than pleased to make your acquaintance Rory, and very grateful for your courage to help a stranger.”
[Rory] She is startled enough to look directly at him for a moment longer than a breath as he gives his introduction. “…count? isn’t that… kike a ling?” Curiosity gleams briefly in her gaze before she hides it away by looking down at her drink, and lifting it for another slow sip.
And then, with the smallest of little grins, barely a quirk of her lips.. “You forgot to add Filver Sang..”
[Marc de Vogue] This time, he really is surprised. And then it does hit him. That feeling of Rory, the way she drew his attention so easily, and the way others avoided them. He had been blind not to see it before. Not to feel the Rage that is certainly undeniable. She was Garou. For the first time this night, he truly is speechless. But he is still smiling. And give it to the young aristocrat. He recovers quickly, with a laugh, not afraid to reveal his surprise.
“That I did Rory… Honestly, that is just…”
He laughs again, shaking his head.
“Merde. I should have seen it before, but you are so charming I just could not see it. My sincere apologies. As for my title, it was long since it had any true power. Many hundreds of years ago my family had claim, but now, ti is just a title.”
And as he looks into her eyes, that smile never wavering.
“And it changes nothing. I would still love to dance with you, and now more then before, in a place where we can both be comfortable. Will you do me that honor Rory?”
There are things he would want to know at some point for sure, like what Tribe she was even if he has a pretty good guess just by her appearance. He cannot sense or see the lineage like the Garou can? But with that hair, those eyes and such a perfection of frame? There are few variations that comes to mind.
“At least now I do not have to worry about assuring your safety with me.”
And he does not seem to worry much about his own safety with her either. After all, why would he be in any danger from her?
[Rory] She surprises him. And in that, surprises herself, though her reaction is anything but as she hides behind her glass, behind that fall of bloodred hair. He calls her charming, and apologizes, then explains his title without making it seem as if she is stupid for asking.
It’s not something that happens every day – and sometimes it’s the little things that make the most impact. And then he’s asking her to dance again, someplace where they’re both more comfortable, and in so many ways he reminds her of Ray, of how Ray makes her feel – how he makes it out as if she’s the most interesting thing in the room…
But she only commits to.. “…maybe.” And even that is oh so daring a tease for the shy little Metis…
[Rory] (le pause!)
[Marc de Vogue] A daring tease for the shy metis. And more than enough reason for the young aristocrat to offer her once again that smile filled with the sun.
The food arrives in short order, a large plate with deliciously cooked duck with vegetables, stir fried with orange liqueur. There was enough to feed two people, but Marc seems content with his drink. He does watch her while she eats, but not openly, spending time describing the place in France where his family comes from, the castle where he grew up (Yes, in an actual castle) and the different types of wine made in that region. Casual, easy small talk that keeps Rory’s attention away from the fact she is eating alone under his scrutiny. The metis might be self-aware to a fault, but Marc has spent his entire life learning the art of putting people at ease, charming them to get their mind of things and simply making people feel good around him.
The food is amazing, and before Rory knows it, the plate is clean. Marc chuckles softly, raising his hand to call the waiters attention, speaking softly to Rory alone.
“I appreciate a woman who is not afraid of her appetite’s.”
The waiter arrives and Marc tells him to bring in dessert, a sweet dish called Eight precious Treasures. The waiter seems surprised at the request, but quickly agrees and goes to tell the chef they actually had a customer that wanted a real Chinese dessert.
“My apologies Rory… Where were we?”
[Rory] He talks, and she listens. He fills the air with stories, painting a view of a world she’ll never know, one of castles and wine and royalty and love and fun and things that she never thought of… one does not dream much past ‘the other side of the door’ when one’s never seen it, right? Perhaps more importantly, he talks without expecting her to answer, which allows her to concentrate on the food, on his stories, instead of trying to make her words come out right.
That’s not to say she’s relaxed, or has quit blushing though – as evident when she cleans her plate completely, and realizes he hasn’t eaten a bite. He teases her, and she blushes brightly, wiping her mouth with her napkin in part to try and hide it. The way he says it… reminds her of Ray too – it’s dripping with something more than just what is presented, and makes her squirm a little in her seat.
He orders desert, and she tips her head, curiously, as the waiter is surprised. She turns that curiosity back on Marc, meeting his gaze briefly before her eyes lower in well practiced, thoughtless submission.
Where were they? Lips curl into the shyest of small smiles as she shakes her head. “You tere weasing about my appetite..”
[Marc de Vogue] ”I like to tease, just a little. But I always with the aim to Please.”
Marc leans back, those blue-green eyes locked on her, trying to catch her eyes whenever she looks up, and when she doesn’t? Well, what she does not know, wont cause her to blush even more will it? He must have seen that blush as it crept down and vanished beneath clothing, and perhaps he had even asked himself… (How far does it go?)
“You are a remarkable woman Rory. Full of opposites. I am so very curious, and that is a rare thing.”
[Rory] She shakes her head slightly, lifting a hand to rub absently along the side of her nose, before tucking those curls behind an ear. They spring free almost immediately, and there’s the sense that the entire thing is ritual, comforting and nervous all at once.
But curiosity has her asking, softly… “Opposites?”
[Marc de Vogue] ”Yes. so shy, but forceful. There was no hesitation in you when you came into the alley. Curious, but very quiet, and beautiful, but seemingly unaware.”
He leans forward a little, putting down the empty glass on the table before putting his arms on the edge of the table, using them for support. Now he watches her quite openly once more, unlike when she had eaten, not bothering to hide his curiosity or the looks.
“It makes me wonder if there is even more that a cursory glance and a short conversation would not show.”
He tilts his head just slightly. It would perhaps look comical, the way he sits and watches her, if it were not for the genuine interest he so openly shows to her, uncaring to hide it.
“You interest me.”
Stated with that boldness and self-confidence she can feel in him.
[Rory] It of course sets off that blush again, racing under her freckles, until disappearing under her clothing as she ducks her head. Ray says she’s beautiful too. She doesn’t quite believe it when Marc says it either.
“I’m sothing no important.” The curious twist of her words only seems to add to the achingly shy innocence here. “Just a mull foon….” a beat, and soft admittance… “…mule.”
Ray hates it when she uses the term, not understanding what it means to be metis, being so new to the Nation. Edwin hates it because she is more than her birth. Marc will recognize it, because of what he is – his reaction, though, is one she cannot predict.
[Marc de Vogue] A beat, and then she admits.
A beat, and Marc reacts.
He is Silver Fang. Within him lies the blood of kings, heroes and lunatics. His is the proudest tribe that admit no honor or recognition to metis if they can help it. His tribe view them as nothing but sin, a shame to be hidden away at best, and killed before anyone finds out at worst.
Rory is more than her birth.
Marc is more than his Tribe.
“Rory, you are certainly important. Without you, I would most likely be face-down in that alley still.”
His smile does not falter, does not change a hair, except possibly become a little wider. There is no doubt that he heard her, and unless he is the best actor in the world, not only does he not seem to mind, but actually seem to appreciate the woman he watches so closely even more.
“Now, I think we will take the desert to go. I insist.”
He is already reaching into his pocket for his phone. Dialing a number and waiting for whoever it is to answer. When they do, he speaks softly, but quickly in French. Rory would recognize a few words, his name, and possibly limousine. The call is ended quickly and the phone put away.
[Rory] He doesn’t do any of the things she expected – like kick her out, tell her to go, call her names, demand she pay for the food he’d provided, beat her as she’s been beaten so many times before. No, instead, he tells her she’s important, and that they are taking dessert to go. Confusion flickers across her face, as much for that as for the fact that he suddenly speaks in a different language, and her teeth worry over her lower lip again in absent nervousness.
But she doesn’t [disobey] object… instead, she nods, slightly, and offers a shy “…ok.”
He has her off kilter a bit, seeming both like Ray, yet completely unlike him too. And, as with others in Chicago, he seems not to care of her shamed birth… which is just as confusing as it has been with all the others. So she goes along with it, with him… and waits for the other shoe to drop.
[Marc de Vogue] ”Good.”
Marc summons the waiter again, giving him a black credit card, telling him (Orsdering him) to have the desert packed to go and delivered to the Limousine that was due to appear outside in a few minutes. When the man steps away (always a little hurried to get away from that table for some reason he cannot understand) Marc turns back to Rory.
“I sent for a car. I feel like taking the air, and there we can talk in private, but do not worry… I still promise to teach you to dance.”
Again that boldness, as if there is no possibility that she would not want to go with him, would not want to dance with him. More than just arrogance however. His blood calls out for obedience, but the man seems embracing and warm.
“You can tell me of Chicago as we go, oui?”
[Rory] He still promises to teach her to dance, and she ducks her head, hiding that shy smile away behind her curls. His blood calls for obedience, though it is not unusual for her – they all call for obedience, for submission, for something extracted from her very skin one way or another. That she remains shy, innocent though it all is something of a contradiction…
She is certainly unique.
She isn’t sure what she can tell him of Chicago, but she nods anyway, already dreading the mix up of words that she’ll never hear, the confusion when she tries to explain something important, the embarrassment of realizing she’d made mistakes – again. But she doesn’t back out, or move away, or tell him no.
He expects her to do as he asks – and for now, she complies.
She picks up her pack from the floor, the things inside making clanking and clunking noises that make one at once curious as to whats inside – yet fearful to ask. She turns in the seat so she can slip her arms through the straps, and then looks up at him with those vibrant green eyes. “..ok.”
[Marc de Vogue] Marc nods to her, then is interrupted by the waiter returning with the card. He signs the slip of paper, then slides from the booth to stand up. He stretches slightly, still seeming bothered by a little stiffness, but the time spent relaxing at dinner seemed to have helped some.
A glance to her pack, one slim brow raised slightly, but there will be time enough to ask about it when they are alone, and not in a crowded restaurant. Once again, he offers his arm to the metis, winking at her. This time it is not for his own support, but he remembers the way she shied away from people when they entered. This time, he offers her support.
When she takes it (And there is no doubt that she will) he leads her towards the exit. Another waiter is there, holding a plastic bag, opaque containing a round box. Marc takes it from him with a polite ‘thank you’ and then steps outside into the chill evening air. Just as they do get out, a man in uniform steps up to the club. A long black stretch limo parked on the street. He opens the back door and Marc, with an assuring smile to Rory easily steps into the car, putting away the plastic bag, and then offers Rory a hand to guide her in. When she is in, the driver closes the door and goes to the driver’s seat.
The inside is pure luxury. Fine leather seats. Toned windows, and along one side of the stretched car, a fully stocked bar. The other side has a fancy sound system and even a fold out plasma tv.
[Rory] He stands, and she does a moment after he stretches, her practiced eye seeing his stiffness, where he is injured still, though it’s a look so completely without guile that the innocent worry behind it is beyond question. He offers his arm, and she hesitates a moment, and then slides her fingers into the crook of his elbow once again, ducking her head against his arm as he winks at her, the heat of her blush felt against his skin above and beyond the core boil of rage that is always present.
He offers her support, and she takes it, sticking close to him as he leads her from the club, where the biggest car she’s ever seen pulls up, only to have him help her into it. One last look outside, before she slips her hand into his, and steps into the care, not bothering to hide her wide-eyed shock at the plushness inside, the leather, the darkened windows, the bar, the sound system, the tv…
She blinks, rapidly, and slides her shoulders from her pack’s straps, swinging it around to set it in her lap, her arms wrapped protectively around it… it’s clear she feels very much out of place here…
“…wow.”
[Marc de Vogue] ”Pay it no mind. One of the comforts of my family is money, but it is a small comfort. But it will do for now I think.”
He takes a seat next to her, close enough that he brushes against her arm with the smallest motion. The heat of her Rage, the heat of her skin as she blushes, it draws him rather than pushes him away. He takes his attention from her for a second as he asks the driver to simply take them on a sightseeing tour of the city, before he pushes a button, and a black, solid screen slides up, separating them from the drivers compartment, leaving them very much in private.
The car is huge, yet it seems as if he is more than happy right beside her.
“Alone at last. Now…”
He leans forward and to the side, turning towards Rory. A moment where it is hard to tell if he is reaching for her, or… His hand closes around the neck of a champagne bottle on the other side of her. He is half leaned over her, bodies pressed together a little. A second as he sits back, his arm brushing over hers as he retakes his place. The pop as he pops the cork of the bottle.
“Will you get those glasses for us?”
He indicates the champagne flutes that sit secure in their own little rack along the side wall.
[Rory] They’re alone at last – or at least as close as can be in such a vehicle, and she stares at the darkened screen a moment before she’s very much distracted by the reach across her… there’s a quick inhale as he stretches, so close…. until his arm brushes hers and he settles again… she swallows, and remembers to breathe, just seconds before he asks her to get the glasses.
Teeth worry over her lower lip, gently, as her arms tighten around her pack, protectively, before she sets it to the side, on the floorboards by her feet. A glance at him as he pops the cork off the bottle, before she reaches for the glasses in question, and carefully gathers one of each of them.
She peeks up at him through rusty lashes, briefly, before she offers him the glasses, very much out of her depth here, despite the times Ray has treated her out… a part of her insists she isn’t worth, while a tiny little part thirsts for the night’s first sip of champagne…
[Marc de Vogue] ”Thank you.”
He takes the glasses with trained hand, filling both up with the chilled sparkling wine and then puts the bottle down to the floor before offering her one of the glasses. When she takes it, he rests his fingers on her wrist in a light touch.
“To you Rory, Amazing Full Moon. For saving me tonight. May your battles always be glorious ones.”
A formal thing that he says, again with practiced ease and comfort, as if he was a true born himself, and not just a ‘simple’ kin. He raises his glass to her, and only when she does the same does his fingers slip from her wrist. He takes a sip of the champagne, eyes half lidding as he takes in the taste. When he opens them fully again, he is looking directly at her.
[Rory] His touch is like a jolt of electricity under her skin, causing her to jump slightly, even as his fingers remain light against her wrist. Her teeth sink into her lower lip, as her gaze rests on his fingers, ready for them to shift from something light and playful, easy and comforting to a vice grip of something darker, more sinister. It takes a moment for her to tear her gaze away from the contrast of his fingers across her pale, fragile seeming skin, and then she meets his gaze for the briefest of (…electric…) moments. She flushes, and belatedly lifts her glass, though it’s with regret that it pulls his hand from hers…
She takes a careful sip of the champagne, letting it float over her tongue as she had been taught before, swallowing only when she’s savored the taste completely. Unlike so many of her tribe, alcohol is still very new to her, each new drink explored completely before she determines is she likes it or not. Judging by the second quick sip – she likes it.
And he’s looking at her again – unsurprisingly, it kicks off that blush, as she ducks her head once more.
[Marc de Vogue] She ducks her head down, and Marc takes the briefest of moments, considering, then reaches out with the hand that just recently left her wrist. It is with an ever so light touch under her chin with his fingers, easing her head up to where he can look into her eyes once more.
“Forgive my boldness…”
Why isn’t he ranting or raving at her for being unworthy? Why isn’t he striking her or showing her how much he despises her? The reason is clear in his eyes, if she dares meet them for more then a second.
He does not believe she is any of those things. There is no anger or disapproval in him, no ire to direct at her. There is a simple joy of life, an excitement of youth that refuses to be tempered. Spirited exuberance.
“But I do enjoy looking at you. There is no need to be afraid here. We are alone, with no one to disturb us, and no one to judge. Relax and enjoy yourself, knowing that.”
[I can sweet-talk the shy girl again!]
Dice Rolled:[ 9 d10 ] 1, 2, 3, 5, 6, 7, 9, 9, 9 (Success x 4 at target 6)
[Rory] He lifts her chin, and she lets him – though her lashes are the last to raise, as if meeting the magnetic power of his gaze is a struggle in itself, that she can’t quite win… she expects him to be as so many others of her past, and he proves to be more like those here in the present – and it keeps her off kilter. She isn’t sure what to expect, has no idea what ma happen next… and then his voice is soothing over her like sun after a sudden downpour…
He enjoys looking at her, he says, and it sparks a curiosity in the shy metis, as she furrows her brow slightly, and gives voice to that question that she doesn’t seem to understand… “Why?”
Why her… why does he like looking at her? There’s simply nothing remarkable about her, in her mind…
[Marc de Vogue] ”I already told you. You interest me, and you are more then easy on the eyes. I fear the day you discover your own beauty Rory. You would hold sway over men and beast alike.”
Again, his touch vanishes from her as he lets his hand drop from her chin, down to brush fingertips across her wrist, almost as if by accident as he raises his glass for another sip of the champagne.
“But perhaps I am being to forward with you? I would not want to press my advances where they are not wanted. I am a simple man, and I tend to be too honest with such things.”
[Rory] She blushes, and almost on it’s on her wrist turns into that brushing touch, so that it’ll linger just a bit longer. He worries that he’s too forward, and she actually laughs – soft and brief and barely an exhalation of sound.
“You sound rike Lay, again.”
Which is not, at all, a ‘no, stop, don’t’ is it….
[Marc de Vogue] He joins in her laughter, softly, then places his glass on the floor. Reaching up, he presses a button that slides open the sunroof. A rush of air makes their hair dance for a moment. But the car is not moving very fast. He stands up, his hand coming around her wrist. Again, there is strength in the gentle touch as he pulls on her arm to coax her up to join him.
“Come.”
He stands up head and shoulders easily vanishing through the sunroof, one hand resting on the roof of the Limo, the other still holding on to her.
“You should try this…”
[Rory] he slides the sunroof open and she looks upwards, startled, though it’s his touch around her wrist that pulls her breath into a softly caught breath, even as he tugs on her arm to get her to join him. Her brow furrows slightly, again, as she looks at him, than at the front screen of the car, and then back again, before she carefully puts her glass aside, and stands with a grace inborn within her.
The wind – even though the car is not going very fast – plays havoc with her curls, and she closes her eyes as it does so… a moment’s breath taken before she is able to look around them, her free hand touching the edge of the window lightly, keeping her balance as she takes in a view of the city from a slightly different vantage point.
She closes her eyes again, and tips her head back, facing the wind as it washes across her features, and tugs her curls away from her face in an act that makes her seem curiously naked, without the ability to hide behind her hair… vulnerable, and shy, as she enjoys the simple pleasure of the wind across her face…
[Marc de Vogue] The sunroof is just big enough to let them both stand up together. The wind plays with her hair, caressing her face, and she can feel his body press into hers. His hand slides from her wrist to find perch and rest easy against her hip, a move that both helps her balance, as well as allows him to hold her just a little closer.
He laughs softly as she leans her head back, and she can feel him shift as he leans in to whisper in her ear, just loud enough to be heard over the rush of the wind.
“There is so much to experience out there. Always a first. All you need to do, is reach out for it…”
[Rory] He presses against her, his arm sliding around her waist, finding purchase on slim hip, holding her closer to him than he’s dared so far. She doesn’t resist the pull closer, even as it causes her to tremble, just enough that it might be explained as a reaction to the chill of the wind…
…if not for the fact she’s blushing. Again.
He leans to whisper in her ear, and it pulls her just that much closer to him… there’s a shy hesitation as her hands remain one by her side, the other against the sun roof, until – as if by their own volition – one lifts to reach out, and rest lightly at his waist, timid, and shy…
[Marc de Vogue] Marc knows what he is doing. He knows the reaction he can coax from most Garou when he wants to, and he has a boldness in him that is undeniable and attractive in its own right. But he is not stupid. He might have been able to move faster, more strongly than he had so far, but then it would not have been her choice, it would have been his. Now she reaches out to him, and he meets her gaze, smiling.
He lifts his hand from the roof, reaching to cup her cheek in his palm before sliding it around to the back of her neck, fingers tangling with her hair as it is whipped by the wind. He pulls her closer. He stops when his lips are just close enough that she can feel the heat of him against her own lips, his breath warm against soft skin. He gives her that brief moment to consider, to imagine.
Then he kisses her, and as with all such things?
It starts softly.
[Rory] His hand slides around the back of her neck, the heat of her blush warm under his touch, and her breath catches as his fingers tangle into her curls. He pulls her closer, and her lashes fall to let her gaze drop to his lips, than back up again, a curiously innocent glance that speaks volumes of her limited experiences… his breath is warm, and her’s is… forgotten – trapped somewhere in her throat in a way that makes her heart pound….
And then he kisses her…
It starts softly. Even so her fingers tighten slightly in the material of his shirt, a tremble working its way along her spine, dancing across her senses as she kissed by the second man…ever. There a subtle differences in the way he kisses, than when Ray does… this is new, different, and she savors the press of his lips, even as her’s part into a willing sigh…
[Marc de Vogue] He takes his time to taste her lips, the tip of his tongue teasing across her lips as they part in that oh so soft sigh. The hand around her waist shift, sliding more fully around until the tips of his fingers rest in the curve of her spine just where it meets the firm roundness of her buttocks.
She can feel his lips, curved in a small smile even as he kisses her. Playful, enjoying the touch of her, the wind. Enjoying the fact that they are driving through a crowded street of Chicago, in full view of everyone they pass, kissing.
He continues to explore her lips with his tongue tempting her to part lips more fully, to deepen the kiss. He does not know Ray, nor does he much care for anything other then the woman currently in his arms and her reaction to him, how she follows so easily to his gentle guidance.
[Rory] She has forgotten that they are on display, that others can see her, can see him kissing her, can see her reaction and willingness to lean into his touch.. if she remembered, she’d surely seek to hide once again. But it’s his kiss that has her full attention, that has her sighing softly, delightedly as his tongue teases her own from hiding, allowing the kiss to deepen farther…
His hand slides around the small of her back, causing her to arch closer, pressing against him with a softly eager sound… he leads this dance, but she is quite willing to follow wherever he dictates… be it the parting of her lips, to the slide of her arm around his waist, her fingers tangling in the soft material of his shirt at the small of his back, holding on as his touch sends a knee weakening jolt through her slender form…
While she is clearly a novice, it’s also clear that this is not her first kiss… she instinctively follows his lead, she brazenly (…for her…) tastes of his lips, his tongue as he teases her, birthing a soft moan into the deepening kiss…
[Marc de Vogue] He would have been quite happy to remain as they were for however long he could, yet lost to the pleasure of the kiss as he is, there is the bigger picture to consider. It is almost regretfully that he breaks the kiss, his lips catching her bottom lip for a moment as he does. He does not give the woman a chance to consider their surroundings however, and simply pulls her down into the back of the limo again.
He sits down smoothly and pulls Rory along with him, down into his lap. She is given a moment, just long enough to form half a thought or so, before he pulls her down, hand against the back of her head, fingers weaving through blood-red locks.
Down here, the kiss is a little deeper, hungrier. His other hand returns to her back, fingers finding the edge of tank top, just above those cut off shorts, fingers teasing across warm skin.
[Rory] He breaks the kiss, and she opens her eyes, vibrant green and burning with the sensation he’s building so carefully within her… lips curving into shy smile as he pulls her back into the limo, and the relative privacy within.
He pulls her into his lap, and she doesn’t resist, allowing him to place her where he wishes against him, as his hands find her hair once more. There’s no hesitation as he lays claim to her lips again, hungrier, deeper, pulling a soft moan from deep in her throat, her hands sliding along his chest, the touch light, timid, shy even now… even as she curls into the touch of his fingers against her skin, with a softly eager cry…
He leads this dance – but she… oh she is so willing a partner…
[Marc de Vogue] He takes his time with her once more. His fingers curl slightly, gripping at her hair. There is something like a sigh from him, a break of the kiss as he pulls her back just slightly to look at her. Searching perhaps, or memorizing, it is hard to tell.
His hand slide up along her back, slipping underneath the tanktop to trace fingers along her spine slowly. His grip on her hair lighten and he pulls his hand away to let it drop to her shoulder, caressing down her arm, following the line of her muscles, teasing, then slips in under to nudge it upwards, a sign for her to raise her arms up, as if to let him pull her top off. He would not let her do it however, laughing softly and fending her off if she tries. He wants the pleasure of doing it, as if opening a present on Christmas eve.
[Rory] She blushes under his look, under the way he searches her face, the way he memorizes the lines and features of her face, causing her to hide beneath the fall of lashes – though she doesn’t duck her head away this time…
…she’s completely distracted from the wish to hide by the way he slides his fingers over her skin, along lean muscles and the line of her spine, until he’s nudging her tank top upwards… And here, as she lifts her arms for him to do as he pleases with her clothing, he finds another contridiction… for all of her shyness, for all of her ducking away, her hiding… she has no modesty when it comes to being unclothed. She simply doesn’t understand why her body causes me to react as they do… it’s simply skin.
And while she doesn’t understand it, and has no shyness when she is – eventually – shirtless in his lap, there’s no doubt now that her blushes do travel all over… spreading like wildfire under her skin, as it’s not her nakedness that causes the blush, but the way he looks at her – the way he touches her…
She pulls her lower lip between her teeth, absently, before peeking up at him through her lashes…
[Marc de Vogue] He takes his time to pull her tanktop up, reveling in the way more of her is revealed to him. She blushes, and his smile widens. Then as the top is brushing over her face, he gathers it in one hand, together with locks of her hair, not completely pulling it away, instead tightening it around her head where it just barely covers her eyes, but leaves her lips free of the cloth, turning it into a makeshift blindfold.
He pulls her down slowly, guiding her with the flimsy fabric. If she really wants to, she could easily slip out of it completely now, or she can accept his guidance, to place that trust in the young kins hands if she dares.
His body press up against hers, the smooth fabric of his shirt teasing against her bare skin as his chest presses against her breasts, his lips brushing against her teasingly, tip of his tongue tasting her lips once more.
[Rory] She trembles, lightly, as she pulls her arms from the shirt, and he tightens it about her eyes… her teeth sink into her lower lip, but she does not fight it, does not fight him, as he uses her clothing as a makeshift blindfold, blocking one of her senses from her… He is gentle though, as he urges her down, guiding her with a firm, yet gentle hand..
She places her trust in this stranger, this kin met only a few hours ago, in a way that showcases just how innocent she truly is… She knows she could pull away at any time, she knows she is stronger than he is by design, yet she submits to him completely as he presses against her, and finds her lips with his own once again…
Her breath catches, as his shirt slides across her skin, nipples hardening, crinkling at the slightest brush in open and unsullied reaction to his touch.. her lips part at bequest of his tongue, and her fingers slide along his chest in shy exploration before tugging [brazenly – for her] gently to untuck the material from his slacks…
[Marc de Vogue] Just as she lets him play and explore, he gives her the same right. His shirt is easily tugged from his slacks, one button popping open as she does. He breaks their kiss, leaning back just enough to give her hands the roam of the front of his chest to find those buttons. He laughs softly, taking this time to use his free hand to brush along the side of her chest, hand cupping around one breast.
Each time she gets a button undone, he rewards it with a teasing stroke of finger across hard nipple, a brief gentle pinch or nudge to keep her on edge, mixed with his laughter, enjoying himself quite well it seems.
As the last button comes undone, the tank top is pulled away from her eyes. He shrugs out of the shirt, letting it fall to the seat behind him, in doing so, releasing her and ‘trapping’ his own arms for a brief moment in the tangle of shirt. An opening if she is quick enough to seize it.
[Rory] He lets her explore, not stopping as she tugs the shirt away from it’s confines in his slacks, fingers sliding along his belly, his chest until she can find, and work on those buttons… the first time he rewards her, her voice falls in a soft gasping sigh, her fingers still for a moment as the sensation works through her slender frame, before seeking another button, another reward… his laughter brings a shy curve to her own lips, as she frees the last button and slides her hands across bare skin… the heat of her touch a low burn against the relative coolness of his chest…
He tosses her shirt aside, and works on his own, trapping herself in something like a dare… and she’s very, very fast. She presses her palms against his shoulders, and holds him back against the seat with an ease that is the barest suggestion of just how strong she really is… and then, when he falls obediently still, she takes her time exploring his chest, fingers following the lines and swell of muscle, before she pinches a nipple gently, guaging his reactions and delighting in pulling each one from him…
Then, before she lets him free himself from his shirt, she [oh so daringly] ducks her head, her curls teasing across his chest as she pulls a nipple between her teeth, scraping it gently, teasingly rolling her tongue across it before she lifts her head to peek at him and help him free himself from his shirt, her blush deepening…
[Marc de Vogue] She catches him, and his eyes widen, not with fear, but with delight. When she pinches his nipple, she is rewarded with a shiver that runs across his frame, his eyes closing. He is in no rush, and as she ducks her head down and her teeth graze his nipple, the young man gasps, eyes shooting open.
He look at her, eyes wide, that smile now deep, hungry and near enough a grin. When he is finally free of the shirt, his hands go to her arms. He pulls her to the side, shifting under her to move her to the seat on her back. Turning to end up on his knees on the floor of the car. His arms finding her sides, fingers tickling down along them until he finds the edge of her cut off shorts.
[Rory] He catches her, and she smiles up at him – a smile at once so achingly shy and innocent as well as willing and filled with a hunger of its own, it’s downright stunning – though she’d be the first to deny any such thing. Her eyes glimmer darkly green as he moves her, her lean frame twisting willingly until she’s on her back, and he’s teasing her again, tickling his touch across her ribs, dancing his fingers along the edge of her shorts.
She pulls her lower lip between her teeth again, watching him through the fringe of dusty lashes, her breath a soft exhalation of delight with every slide of skin against skin…
She’s forgotten the driver, she’s forgotten the city outside – there is only him, and the way he’s making her feel…
[Marc de Vogue] His eyes never leave her face, focused on her eyes despite the allure that her body presents. He breathes in slowly as fingers find the button that holds those shorts to her hips, popping it open with agile fingers before his hands tighten around the fabric, slowly easing them of her hips. He uses the shorts, lifting her legs up in front of himself as he pulsl them off, leaning in to graze her skin with a quick nip before the shorts are thrown aside, and he guides her legs down to either side of his body, hands sliding down along smooth thighs with agonizing slowness, letting the tips of his fingers play as he teases her.
His chest, hard and lean rise and fall with deep breaths, excitement building in him, reigned in to savor Rory and the shared (stolen) time in the back of the car as it drives the streets of Chicago.
[Rory] She lifts her hips so that he can more easily pull those shorts down and away from her long legs, her breath catching in a soft whimper as he nips her skin, let loose once more into a soft sigh as he teases her, sliding his hands along her thighs, playing across her skin, teasing her… her skin is so warm, so very warm with the fueling rage beneath it – it makes one wonder what she feels like under her own moon, and if any man could withstand the heat of her then….
He keeps focused on her face, and she closes her eyes briefly, the intensity of what she sees in his a bit much to take, a bit frightening, a lot overwhelming. But the moment passes, and she peeks up at him through her lashes, her thighs pressing against his sides, lightly, eagerly…
[Marc de Vogue] His hands move up her thighs, pressing against her when she pushes with her thighs, parting her thighs. He leans down, taking his gaze from her for the time it takes him to brush lips across her stomach, just beneath her belly button, tongue flicking out to taste her. He glances up at her, seeking her eyes as he slowly begins to glide lower, lips and tongue working in teasing shifts to taste her skin until they brush across red curls. (So she IS a natural red after all! Certainly Fianna, this one)
Blue-green eyes once more locked on her even as he moves down. Hands lifting her legs to place them over his shoulders, baring her fully. Warm breath against warmer skin, fueled by rage and excitement. That first electric flick of tongue over sensitive folds, that first taste of Her.
[Rory] She presses against him, a light squeeze and he parts her thighs farther, which causes her to – you guessed it – blush. She is curiously open about her nakedness, still learning that her body can excite someone, can lead them to burn with want, with desire – the way he burns now.
His tongue tastes of her lower belly, and she sucks it in, playfully, out of his reach for a brief moment, her green eyes glinting with curiosity tangled with desire. He teases her, and she watches, even as he lifts her legs over his shoulders, opening her completely to him… his breath across sensitive lips causes her to catch her own, and that first flick of his tongue, the taste of her that’s just as confusing without really knowing why.. (it will be later when he realizes she has no scent, that she has not marked him or his clothing with any essence of her – but for a stray curl here or there…) its the first in what promises to be a night filled of gasps.. of moans..
She doesn’t hold those back, either… letting her reactions fall freely into the air between them, each flick of his tongue bringing a soft moan to her lips as her eyes close and she curls her hips closer to him…
[Marc de Vogue] It is like playing an instrument really. You strum the chord, and you are rewarded with music. He lets his tongue play, explore and search? And he is rewarded with the music of moans. Rory is still very much the innocent. She has experience, of one man. Marc is the other side of that balance, with more notches then he would care to count. Yet Rory presents him with a first as well. And he intends to take his time with this one particular first.
It is the first of many moans and gasps, but not the last. Not her last, and not his. He would notice the lack of scent sometime tomorrow, and it would just be another point of interest that she presents to him. For tonight? He is much to busy with coaxing every single breathy moan from her, every gasp and held back noise the shy woman makes under his youthful exploration of her body.
The car drives for a couple of hours, and when that first fiery passion is sated, it takes them to the Trump international, the couple steals up to the suite the young Silver Fang inhabits for now. There is quite a few hours of night left, and so many places and positions to try out.