(no subject)

[gallowseyes]

He's been thinking about it since the first moment he'd spotted her, dancing in the crowd. In all honesty, he's been thinking about it longer; his first day in Darrow had been a confusion, but he'd still had eyes in his head to see her, hadn't he? Still, he's more aware of it now as they walk side by side towards her building, close enough that his arm brushes against hers. He's taller than her, considerably, but that doesn't pose a problem, at least not in his experience.

The way they dress, these women of Darrow, is maddening, too. He knows that Elora doesn't belong here anymore than he does but, like him, she's made an effort to modernise her dress, and he can't help but be aware of the shape of her under her clothes. He can't but wonder what she might look like under it.

"Is this it, then?" he says, looking up at the building as they arrive, as her steps slow. He can't keep (or doesn't try to keep) the note of disappointment out of his voice. Let her hear it.

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[gallowseyes]

Her hand fits into his neatly, and George curls his fingers around hers, squeezing gently as she finds her keys and leads him to the apartment door. Once they're safely inside, her hand still in his, he steps in a little closer, crowding into her space just a touch. She can always tell him to step back. A word, and he'll obey.

"I suspect that we have the same thing in mind," he says. "But I'd like to hear you say it, all the same."

[prophecized]

In that moment, she again feels more servant girl than sorceress, awed that he could give her more than a passing glance. His hand is soft and warm in hers, though, and saying such things, she has no doubt that she was right about where tonight is going. She's much more self-assured now than she ever was back when she was Brunhilde the kitchen girl, anyway. When he takes a small step closer, she does the same in turn, looking up at him with wide, bright eyes.

"I suspect," she says, one corner of her mouth curling higher as she echoes the wording he's used, "that you want to take me to bed. In which case I'm all for it."

[gallowseyes]

A body is a body, but God, he loves women. There's a softness in them that's never there in men -- or, at least, not there in the men that George has always found himself drawn to, anyway. The look in Elora's eyes just then lights a fire in his belly, his cock already stirring. He's under no illusions that she's as innocent as he looks, but the idea of it is undeniably tempting, anyway.

He looks down the hallway, catches a glimpse of a neatly made bed. He keeps one hand curled around hers, the other shifting to rest on her hips, feeling the warmth of her through the thin stuff of her dress. "Now," he says, urging her backwards a step towards her bedroom. "The question that immediately comes to mind is this: how does my lady like to be taken to bed? Does she wish to be savoured and worshipped?" He arches an eyebrow. "Or..." He bends his head to brush his lips against the delicate curve of her ear. "Does she wish to be fucked hard enough to feel it?"

[prophecized]

With his breath warm against her ear, Elora inhales audibly, letting herself be guided backwards, in the direction of her bedroom. Maybe it ought to speak for itself, but it feels good to be wanted, just as much so now as it did back when she was no one. In so many other ways, though, she's changed since then. For the most part, before Airk, sex was generally a quick and simple matter, a few stolen minutes for a physical release, then over.

As with so many other things, Airk was different. He took his time, made her feel special, a prince making her his princess, even if he used the same lines and tactics with so many other girls. Back then, that was everything to her. She was no one, after all. She isn't now. And while maybe there would still be a time and a place for that, it doesn't hold the appeal for her that it once did, isn't the thought that makes her pulse quicken slightly.

"I think I've had more than enough of being worshiped," she replies, her voice low, a soft chuckle in it. It's true, if not in the same way he meant it. She doesn't want to be anyone's savior now; she just wants to feel good for a while, to not have to think so much. "Make me feel it. Feel you."

[gallowseyes]

"Make you feel what?" he asks, his head still bent, his lips brushing against her skin when he speaks. One hand stays on her waist, the other slipping around and down, the fabric of her dress soft against his palm as she squeezes her arse, urging her back another step. He kisses the soft skin behind her ear, down the side of her neck. "I want to see hear you say it. What you want me to make you feel."

The emphasis on the word is soft, but there. He wants to know how hard he can push her. He wants to know what it is she really wants.