<div class="floatleft">(https://68.media.tumblr.com/95fd6679e62e690437e65aca4b07a11f/tumblr_oogroqpARU1tppytvo1_540.jpg)</div><br/><strong>Name:  Psyche Makropoulos (https://elliquiy.com/forums/index.php?topic=266077.msg13127525#msg13127525)</strong><br/><br/><strong>STAFF</strong><br/><br/><strong>Situation:</strong>Scotch for the Gentleman - Black Cherry and Mellow Smoke<br/><br/><br/><strong>Tagging:</strong>Nicholas Carlton<br/><br/><strong>Content Warning:</strong><em>None</em><br/><br/><br/><br/><hr/><hr/><br/>"What was he drinking?" Psyche asked the girl with Nicholas' empty glass on her tray.  A cut of her eyes towards Nicholas' tall form indicated who she meant.  He was clad in a suit that had never been touched by anything so mundane as a sewing machine, every stitch put in by hand at great cost in money and time, and it was well spent.  It fit him as well as a second skin, moving where it needed to, hugging and showcasing his lean, muscular form in exactly the right places, and of course his cufflinks, tie, and pocket square perfectly complemented and completed the look.  He wasn't entirely a pretty man, not like some who came in here, their faces sculpted by magic or surgery into a display of ego and lack of confidence in who they were, but he was a handsome man.  Handsome in an almost dangerous looking way and Psyche couldn't decide if his nose had been broken and set or if it was just evocative of the fighter within him.<br/><br/>"I don't know," the waitress replied and flinched when Psyche's eyes settled on her, almost as if they'd delivered a slap.  "I- I'll find out," she stammered and walked quickly to the bar, short little skirt flipping over her perky bottom.  It wasn't entirely inexcusable, she hadn't served Nicholas, merely picked up his glass, but it spoke to a level of inattention to detail and desire to be the very best in what she was doing that pained Psyche's penchant for hostessing and organization.<br/><br/>"Macallan 30 year old-"<br/><br/>"Scotch," Psyche interrupted the waitress' report.  "A single malt, silky finish, scent reminiscent of an orange grove.  And not the most expensive but something only a rich man would casually order."  Considering, Psyche tapped her lower lip with a finger then nodded the girl away and went to the bar herself, stepping behind it as the bartender moved out of her way.  Stretching onto her tiptoes, her dress pulled across her curves, encasing them in rolling silk as she reached up beyond more plebeian liquors to pull down a chocolate brown bottle crowned with gold gone the color of old brass.  In another establishment it would have been dusty, allowed to go so by neglect or by the mistaken idea that it bestowed a cachet of value.  Here at the One-Night Bride, dust was the enemy of everyone and not allowed to gather much less remain.<br/><br/>Holding the bottle in one hand and the same hand's fingers hooked into the top of a heavy cut glass tumbler, Psyche walked a path that would intercept Nicholas just in front of the tall, heavy wood gazebo style covered bench strewn with pillows cut from rich brocade.  Gliding just in front of him, no hint of a smile on her lips or an expression other than serene calm on her face, the young appearing woman, a girl really, brought him to a stop. Nicholas found her free hand on his broad chest, looking absurdly small and delicate against his muscular frame.<br/><br/>Without a word she pushed and stepped, never letting the pressure rise above more than a firm guiding touch, and steered Nicholas into sitting on the bench.  Turning away from him, the fabric of her dress whispered against his suit clad legs and her bottom just grazed his chest before she sat on his lap, face turned towards his.<br/><br/>Psyche pressed the bottle into one of his broad hands, "Hold it, please," she asked and then worked the cork out and took the bottle back from him to pour the tumbler half full.  "Thank you."  Without asking him if he wanted any, Psyche lifted the bottle and held it out to be picked up by a passing waiter, the act giving Nicholas enough time to see it was Glenfiddich, the 40 year old redolent with black cherry and and mellow smoke from the peat fires that distilled it.  Green eyes watched his blues as she sipped, lips spreading in a kiss around the rim of the glass and the pink hued mystery of her mouth briefly visible through it.<br/><br/>Psyche's left hand settled on the back of Nicholas' neck, then her fingers slithered up through his thick hair, the heavy feel of it against them almost as intoxicating as the drink in her hand, and she cradled the back of his head, still looking at him and not speaking, no expression on her face.  Again Psyche took a sip of the scotch then held the glass straight out at arm's length and dropped it.  Bouncing on the thick Isfahan carpet done in golds and reds, it didn't break but the remaining scotch, irreplaceable treasure from Speyside, spilled out and bathed the two of them in a complex mélange of oaks, leather and toffee.  Psyche held the sip in her mouth and pulled Nicholas' head forward, keeping her own in place and not molding it to his as so many other women would have done, so eager for his wealth and power and body that they couldn't control themselves.  Fingertip pressure guided him in until his lips met hers in a kiss, an open-eyed, closed-mouth kiss that lasted seconds that felt like hours.  Slowly she parted her lips against his, demanding entrance to his mouth, and she let the scotch spill across them and flow over his tongue before following it inside, twining around Nicholas' in an expensive, breathtaking kiss as the fumes from the scotch drifted through her head and his alike.  Psyche drew the kiss out, tongue and lips working in sensual pulses against Nicholas' mouth, taking her own pleasure from it and controlling every second if it before she broke her lips free and rested her forehead against Nicholas'.<br/><br/>Lips a mere thought from his, actually brushing them as she spoke, Pysche murmured, "Tell me what it is you crave."  It wasn't a question, like a mere whore would ask trying to earn coin.  She was a courtesan, a title reserved for those at the absolute peak of exquisite sexuality, and tonight she was going to take her pleasure with Nicholas, not just deliver it to him.  The confidence she exuded warred with the innocence of her freshly reborn body and it was more than the scotch that brought color to Psyche's creamy complexion.