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Post by Byron Maxemillion on Sept 24, 2008 2:49:24 GMT -5
It was a good thing she complied so easily if it not were for his upper hand he was certain she'd be a hellion to the bitter end in keeping him silent. One would think him a callous man and that person would not be too far from the mark. Ever since his beloved had passed on at the new year, a new life seemed little more than a far off fantasy. Something he was not eager in pursuing; look now what the smallest attempt at appeasing a sexual desire had gotten him. In the midst of a murder plot and he was most intrigued as to the woman's reasonings, the woman herself than the fact she was indeed a murderess.
His jaw clenched visibly the only sign he may have held in the smallest fraction of a sympathy for her, or maybe it was just his temper being tested to the core? Whichever it were in the moment of her bared agony she displayed her body seeming to become more frail by the instant. Not exactly her body but her over all condition as alabaster skin turned a milky shade of pale. Even in this physical display of a waning health her fire remained burning brighter than any blaze could consume a wheat field.
Oceanic blues were consumed with the flames, burning him alive with a hatred that came from the core of her being. A hatred he'd cast to God for taking Adaline but soon found that she would wait for him or guide him, give him something for fortitude to continue on. So fresh the memory of her frail body he pursed his lips and returned the Madame Harlot's look with just as much intensity. It was not his fault she'd been caught in her own web.
In the end the black widow had been caught, the crystalline diamonds of her tears clung to the corners of her eyes, clutching at her lashes on a threat to spill over her. Flood gates came open from her pink lips as she recounted to him all her reasonings, for a love of another woman ill treated. By a man that if one analyzed further could either be a husband, father, or brother someone close and dear. Someone that beheld ownership; a man that had right over this girl whom so happened to have been or was this woman's opposite.
If that were plausible to think an angel to a devil, Max was not so easily brought over to the darker area of this scheme. Unable to discern from the unnatural appeal this woman drew from him, his stoic silence reigned over her confessions.A daughter to a husband who awaited with baited breath for her death to celebrate with another marriage. An untimely and unthinkable thing but he'd witnessed it before and he could then sympathize. A man awaiting the death of one he should love, while he had prayed day and night that his own love would live.
God had shunned him instantaneous on the spot. Drawn back from his thoughts as the woman began to ask an impossible thing that he should protect these unknown persons. A child and a woman it was like a hard blow to the immediate skull. Truly she was mad, in the ludicrous of it all Max would've consented if his Adaline had even barely given a quiver of her dainty chin to aide this most unfortunate woman. A woman that committed her crimes for love, accepted her damnation, and readily offered each scrap to him.
Pushing off from the wall Byron made his way to stand in front of her, extending a hand to her chin that he raised further. Tilting her chin up to look down into her eyes his finger crooked beneath that dainty structure. Carefully analyzing each breath, each blink, each nervous or angry swallow the woman was a small intoxicative drug. Murderess.
His hand moved from her chin, gliding along the trace of her jawline to just beneath her ear where his fingers extended. Taking along with him some of her hair to cup behind her neck into the arch of it. Byron lowered his head inhaling the scent of her cleanliness, her perfume that had not been diluted by the burning of cigars in the Moulin's main receiving area of entertainment. His Madame Harlot was far too tempting even with her story of woe.
"It is with a great misfortune I must inform you Madame that I would make for a poor protector. As your well spun tale could make the easiest of hearts weep let us recall I am a man. A man of standing and such a recount will do little to deter me in the proper authoritative action." Lowering himself into a bend, his legs placed at a stance that if she were to attack he had some mobility left at his disposal.
"However I can only give account to your daughter; but not to the fact of this angelic woman describe as she is not my concern. I cannot guarantee that I can offer even you a protective word as I can hire many a person to investigate and at a point hunt you down within the month if I do let you go. I should consider you Madame my own prisoner....A personal prisoner indeed.'
Call it foolishness on my behalf but I find you beyond your murdering most..intriguing." Dipping his head he encouraged her head up to where he spoke against her lips. His warm breath scented of peppermint as he chewed the leaves regularly splayed out onto her face and stroked. "I however find the idea of a personal prisoner most..appealing."
He was close too close as it were. He'd paid a transaction, and it was obvious he was not beneath sympathy but he was a man. An eye for an eye and she'd serve if she so wished some silence from him. Emerald to the Ocean his eyes awaited her to weigh her choices.
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Post by Les Jondrette Femmes on Sept 24, 2008 19:34:07 GMT -5
His jaw clenched, and her last shred of hope died in that moment. No mercy here. Ah, but if he knew them! She was so sure that if he could see little Marie plunking out chords on the piano or Liana with her golden hair and bright, solemn eyes he would love them. How could anyone resist them? She knew her own madness in that moment, when he strode toward her. No one loved as she loved, nor hated as she hated--was that true? She recognised something very familiar in him. She wanted to cling to that, accuse him of it and embrace it like a cure. Such awful images, terrible woes he brought into her mind's eye. It was more than she could bear.
She shivered as his hand when to her chin, lifting her face so that she could either look him in the eyes or stare away like an angry child. Her eyes met his in a wild frenzy of emotions. As his fingers trailed down her jaw and neck, brushing her hair, she suppressed a flinch, anticipating the violence of a moment ago. Surprisingly, he remained gentle, and his touch burned a trail of heat over her skin. Her eyes drifted partly closed, giving her a contended feline look. Her eyes flared with her internal anger, but something else was there, too: desire.
His face hovered near hers, his lips just lightly grazing hers as he spoke. His offer sent her heart racing with fury and excitement. She wanted to spit in that handsome face, make him know her wrath, crush her lips to his and own him in a way this particular man would probably never be owned.. she understood none of it. She had made love twice in her life, and never had there been such dominance or hunger in Jean. She probably disgusted this man. Well, it was hardly new, barely something that would worry her. Perhaps she should enjoy this last moment, a chance offered to her to feel passion without reaching so desperately for love. Her captor could not love her. No man could love her; perhaps her face, her voice, her walk, but not her.
She could give him the movements, this body, this voice, in return for his. Let her enjoy being wanted, enjoy the sheer sensation of it, let him use and enjoy her for one night and then perhaps hunt her down and destroy her. Let her... pretend. Her eyes flared with some inner decisiveness and she titled her head just slightly upward, leaning to place a gentle kiss on his lips. The scent of him was driving her mad. Her hands lifted to cup his face and then weave back into his hair, her finger stroking in soft motions up and down his neck then twining back into his hair. She let out a shaky breath and pulled her lips from his, then, her eyes opening to meet his, their faces very close together. It was not what she had expected herself to do, be so gentle and tender. Perhaps it was some instinct about which she had not previously known.
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Post by Byron Maxemillion on Sept 24, 2008 20:34:40 GMT -5
The insanity that he'd given this woman options a choice to serve him so personally he wondered if he wasn't as addled in the head. Then again maybe he was; he'd not been right in anything since the death of Adaline since the day he'd wanted to cast God and all other things aside. So he could live by that grave; but the days of unrest, sleepless nights, lack of appetite had become unhealthy for him. March had proven to be his month of borrowed time where he'd rest his head on the cold marble of her tomb.
Finding himself cleaning it of a single leaf that might've fallen in the night. Crazed in silence he'd proclaimed he'd lay by her soon; God knew he'd tried to let himself wither away. It had not been his time, and he felt for this woman her blue eyes wildly staring back into his own at the challenge. It was not yet her time either as far as he could've been concerned with the current matter of things.
Baited he let her mull over his words, work through the options that he even consider not telling the authorities. Byron had gone as far as to bring himself closer to her letting the perfumes of her to fill his senses. Like a sweet cake inside ones mouth it went to his nostrils imprinting inside his brain. Like Adaline smelled of Lillie's, this one had the feint reminisce of floral scent be it her perfume or her perfumed bathing soaps. Her movement let his brain wander from her smell to her eyes once more.
It would be appealing to see her out of a borrowed woman's gown a harlots dress in her own finery he was certain she must wear. To Max's mild surprise his inner being wanted to taste this woman's lips, wanted her fiery personality to consume him. She'd make him burn with her blazing storm of heat; followed by the drowning if he looked much longer into her ocean blue eyes. Her movement proved to be her head being brought up to close the gentle distance of their lips.
Soft pink against the hard line of his own surprisingly just as soft with a slight tickle of a half days growth of stubble. Her fingers found their way into the full few inches of length of his hair; caressing his neck which encouraged him to frame her face with his large hands. Emerald boring into Sapphire the corner of his lips twitched in a satisfied amusement.
"You've decided...." He muttered before Byron closed the limited hairs-breadth distance between them. If she were given a further chance to think on what she'd just decided it'd be a lengthy battle from there on. His large hands found her shoulders and gently pressed her back onto the mattress with her hands still caressing his neck. His lips invaded upon her own, flicking the bottom lip with a tracing of his tongue, the upper before coaxing her to part for him. Where he would most eagerly massage his against her own.
In the process of course one leg had come up to be a placed knee on the bed to balance his weight. The other leg nudged between her thighs working the skirt up trapping her there in an instinctual way.
She tasted of the most divine, ambrosial delights he had to admit.
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Post by Les Jondrette Femmes on Sept 24, 2008 21:23:46 GMT -5
She wallowed, lost. His deep voice vibrated against her fingers, the sheer power of it startling her with its nearness. She inhaled sharply as his lips pressed back onto hers, initiating another kiss. Her passion broke like water from a dam, flooding her senses with nothing but him. His scent, his touch, his weight, his breath fluttering over her pounding pulse. You've decided... It was like a deal being sealed, his announcement that there was no turning back. His pleased expression was almost predatory. He had caught her. If not for her intense desire, she would have fought him then purely from pride.
His knee snaked up, pressing the dress to expose her long limbs, and little bumps rose on them from the relative chill, among other things. She gasped into his mouth, opening it to him, and then melted back against the bed. She'd had no idea that one could kiss in such a fashion. Her hands slipped slowly down to his back, pressing lightly and then rubbing, almost in a soothing way. It was a habit borne of motherhood. Drawing one knee up, she lightly rubbed his groin with her leg, bold. As the kiss broke briefly she was nearly panting, but still managed to whisper. "Yes... do not try to persuade me otherwise." There was a playful note in her voice, completely without its usual threat. She was surprised at her ability to joke with him, especially at such a time--and with him, of all people.
She lifted her eyes to his face, placing her hands to frame it gently. She applied slight pressure to let him know that she wanted to take a moment to just look at him. Her blue eyes swept his face, the ever-present hard set of his mouth and eyes, the sculpted perfection of his features... he was a work of art. Her first though had been Seraphim, but now she revised it. The Archangel Michael, an avenging warrior with the beauty of an angel. She had always wondered how Michael could slaughter the damned and not grow bitter and cold. There was bitterness in this man. There was cold. She lifted her fingers and let the pads drift over his cheek and down the hard line of his jaw, spreading again to run them over his lips. Such very kissable lips...
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Post by Byron Maxemillion on Sept 24, 2008 22:02:16 GMT -5
To Byron it was extraordinary how the woman whose fire had been for murder, and had also been to his silence of her scheme. Now transformed itself into a burning passion that had he could safely assume under the way her breath caught, in the way her body responded, in the way she eagerly tasted his lips. Became a living, burning flame that would be stoked down into the depths of her belly for a fulfillment he could both give and deny. It was not a surprise to feel himself harden visibly, pulsating with an eagerness of this blaze that had found a new purposeful way other than death to burn the flesh of man.
Carefully his leg worked in a subconscious way to carry her skirts up around her waist in a crumple of old harlot's clothing. Contrary to what one might think that a man thought of his own pleasures above another it had not been in Byron to ever leave a woman wanting. If his own inner coldness could let him go for a brief moment he could pretend to love Adaline as he always wanted. Only this woman was not her; leaving Max to find himself wanting to please her. Emerald eyes glanced down at the offering of her breasts when his lips broke away. Enticing him further but he restrained just barely.
Her gasp filled his mouth making him hungry for more gasps to come although his ears would've preferred the music of her moans. Those dainty hands that had beheld his face just moments before were gentle, searching, curious to explore. It filled Byron with an even more aroused air to watch the contrast of alabaster against bronze the coloring befitted them both. A slender knee drew up to touch his aching arousal now hard entirely within his trousers giving to her a controlled groan that passed onto a growl of warning.
Removing his lips from her own he looked down at her, the apple of her cheeks burning brightly; panting she did so elegantly with her breasts rising and falling more inviting than ever.
"Yes..do not try to persuade me otherwise." At that he did chuckle dark in his throat, reverberating deep form his chest and up to be heard. He was not laughing at her, neither was he laughing of humor, but at her demand that he not draw back now.
"I would never.." Max responded as her eyes took him in, his hands now supporting him on either side of her head. His back slightly arched down with his head bowed for her to frame and caress as she so pleased. Keeping himself still for her to take in every inch of his facial features in the low lighting of the room. Nimble fingers moved over him like a blind woman reading a book, reading him for all he was worth. As her fingers passed over his lips he parted them and suckled the little tips into his mouth flicking them with his tongue.
Distracting her with that his knee shifted down, using his right arm he reached along her goosefleshed leg. Encouraging it off the floor and up, spreading her and using his knee he raised it up between them. Pressing the other leg open to where he fitted between creamy thighs the two of them still clothed. Not hesitating in leaning forward he did of course rub the hardness of his arousal against the junction there of her core. Letting her know just what she did to him.
Releasing her fingers from his mouth, Max lowered his head once more and proceeded to devour her mouth as fully as a man was capable.
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{I will be sending you a PM momentarily}
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Post by Les Jondrette Femmes on Sept 25, 2008 21:33:01 GMT -5
(-this part can be left to the imagination-)
Breathing deeply, trying to catch enough oxygen from the air to appease her strained lungs, she watched him as he lay next to her with curiosity and even a strange, surprising affection. The ends of his hair had curled, accentuating his distinctly Spanish appearance. How had he come to be an English duke? She wondered. Even more so, why was he here, so stricken and haunted and purchasing a whore at an outrageous sum? Did she look like someone he had known and wanted?
"Your hair curls in the most marvelous way," She said quietly, still out of breath. The sheen of sweat that coated her, both his and hers, had begun to attract the chill now that her body cooled and she did not have the benefit of his warm embrace. Shivering, she sat up, and turned her face away from him. She had never been so abandoned and laid bare to anyone before, let alone a man like him. Controlling, merciless, and powerful... beautiful. She had been a wife and a mother for years now and had made love for the third time tonight in a brothel with a stranger, and had for the first time felt the true depth of passion that it could hold. She was suddenly grateful, for she would have died without ever having known it if not for him. Nevermind that he did not love her, for love is not for the dying. Love comes before the bad news--the bad news had come, and since Love had not come first, the bad news was made good to those who had failed to bring it.
She lifted herself, deep in thought, from the bed on unsteady feet and lifted her crumpled dress, not bothering with her stays. She pulled the clothing onto her body--it was ripped in some places--absentmindedly and once more pulled her hair over her shoulder, beginning to braid it out of pure habit. She avoided looking at him, unsure of her position now and afraid that he would look at her like a whore. Wandering slowly to the window she peered out and into the little alley where the ladder lay with a feeling of detachment.
"Your Grace, if you could let me set myself to rights before calling the authorities I should be very glad. It will be easier for society to forgive my daughter for having a murderess for a mother, but not for having a murdering whore for one." She turned to him with a slightly, ironic smile, though the joke was not funny. Her face became solemn again and she was silent. "You will consider watching over my daughter?" She asked quietly, her eyes back on the ladder. A night wind blew in through the open window and chilled her still-damp skin.
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Post by Byron Maxemillion on Sept 25, 2008 22:17:58 GMT -5
It was a difficult task to catch ones breath after what felt like a marathon run. Looking to the naked beauty beside him; haloed by her red-brown hair that seemed like a dream spilled on the bed. Byron breathed through his nostrils raising a hand up to shove his fingers through his hair as she commented on it. Earning a twitch of a smile at the corner of his lips even though he swallowed for his dry throat. Max could comment on every inch of her beauty; the way she spoke venomous fire with words to murder and keep him silent.
She was up and out of the bed before he could conjure up the strength to get his tongue working. Turning away from him like he was the greatest shame she'd committed; knitting his brows together in a scowl as he too sat up. Had he not done all in his power to give her pleasure beyond compare regardless of the fact she was a murderess? His for the evening, his until he no longer wanted her if that were possible. This woman intrigued him; she was not close to a candle beneath his Adaline but she was a flame lit on her own. Her own person and he saw her as such, there was no point in comparing.
Sliding forward he retrieved his socks, and trousers with a swoop of his long arm down to the floor. Drawing them on in record time; he fastened the front and reached down for his shirt while she busied herself with her own clothing. He was half dressed by the time she'd gone to the window avoiding his direction at all costs. That displeased him; her now obvious lack of interest if that is what it was, or was it because he now held the upper hand even after their tangling of winding sheets.
"Your Grace, if you could let me set myself to rights before calling the authorities I should be very glad. It will be easier for society to forgive my daughter for having a murderess for a mother, but not for having a murdering whore for one." Byron scowled further, silence stretching on like a long rope threatening to hang them both. "You will consider watching over my daughter?" Her back still to him he strode to her in two strides once his shirt was buttoned decently. Drawing one suspender strap up over his left shoulder. Large hands went to the stays of her dress he tightened them gently, leaning into her gazing down at the fallen ladder as well.
Lowering his head, brushing his lips along her bared side of her neck while her hands plaited her hair. A hand reached over and stopped her fingers from working the braid.
"I enjoy your hair loose..Madame Murderess. Be it that I would consider watching over your daughter but I must warn I'd be a horrible protector." Byron kissed her neck turning her face to him so he could look into her eyes. "Call it my own madness Madame but I see no reason in calling the authorities tonight. I will warn you that this will not be the last time you see me." A jingle of noise came as he set the keys down on the small framework just the edge of the windowsill so it'd not fall to the street below. A final kiss to her lips had him retrieving his jacket, cravat, and final items before reaching the door and exiting. He glanced over his shoulder, giving the door a yank forcing the lock to bend open as it was an ill used door.
"I enjoy the chase Madame....Call me Hunter and you are my Prey." Exiting then he let the door bang behind him. A few minutes later the sound of wood scrapping against the outside of the window could be heard.
By the time the Madame could venture to see whom it was, he'd stepped into his carriage 'round the corner. He'd set the ladder for her once more if she truly needed it as her mode of escape from the brothel.
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