<b><a class="link link--internal" href="https://bluemoonroleplaying.com/forums/showthread.php?tid=84757&amp;pid=2043307#pid2043307">Arthur Connington</a></b><br/><b>Location:</b>The Gramercy Plaza Condominium Bar.<br/><b>Tag:</b>"Cassie Gutierrez"<br/><br/><hr class="bbc-hr bbc-hr--3"/><br/>"No, I'm not allergic" Arthur managed to mumble, Cassie's wisp of a giggle distracting him from the question. Once she was gone he had to call himself a fool for thinking that she would flirt with an old man, she was just being gentle and working her best, nothing else. While she was gone, his writer mind couldn't stay still even if he wanted to, imagination running wild against his desires.<br/><br/><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'"><i>"Mister Connington!" what should have been a yell, was barely a whisper. The slap he surely deserved just a caress against his prickly beard. The aroma of the cinnamon ticked their noses, raising from the broken bag on the floor. Arthur had pinned Cassie against the shelves of the pantry, hugging her from behind, but the young woman had squirmed and turned around in his arms. "I told you to call me Arthur so many times..." he hushed, his rough lips so close from her own, and yet they felt miles away, a chasm that she should not bridge. "I can't, Mister Connington..." Cassie's voice trembled, an odd and enticing sight. "Just once" he said, a tender hint under the surprisingly forceful approach, his hands firmly resting on her hips. "Even just once would be once too many..." her hands pushed the man away, but they didn't retreat from his chest, feeling his agitated heartbeat and-</i></span><br/><br/>"Ah, yeah, thanks" Arthur mumbled, not as suave as he would have liked. Cassie, the real Cassie getting back to his table broke the sultry and corny fiction he was running on his mind, feeling embarrassed just for thinking so, even if he had trouble preventing it. His ability to milk any situation to weave those sorts of stories was precisely what had made him a successful writer, even if he wasn't an award-winning one. His books usually could be found in the lists of bestsellers and those Internet tops about guilty pleasures, but never among the ones favored by critics. Cheap thrills, they called them, but Arthur didn't torture himself. At least they admitted they were thrilling.<br/><br/>Looking at Cassie, Arthur thought that he noticed a small blush and a couple of gestures he had an easy time identifying as he had written them so many times, in so many different forms. Was it something he said? Had he been ogling at her? Trying to discern what was going on, he just kept himself silent, seeing Cassie get away and a flashy looking young woman getting into the bar to order a beer, although his mind was occupied with Cassie. Arthur was convinced that something he did or said had made her uncomfortable, something that mortified him. How could he think of that girl in such a way? She could be his daughter. Shaking his head, he occupied himself with more coffee and that admittedly wonderful stickybun, although the cinnamon only served to rekindle his own fictionalized encounter.<br/><br/>Should he apologize even if he didn't know what he did? Should he just pay the check and get away? Arthur sighed, his hands on the laptop keyboard while he pondered what was the proper thing to do.