dahlia
You can't buy this fineness
Call it animal magnetism or something altogether more ethereal, but as soon as knuckles meet wood, Dahlia knows exactly who to expect at her door. She turns to glance over her shoulder just as Dorian opens it, the light from outside spilling on sleep tousled curls, on full lips curling in a smile. A breeze tumbles through in his wake, sending gooseflesh rippling over her skin and bringing with it the scent of his cologne; a scent that she marks as unmistakeably Dorian from henceforth.
"Good morning," she purrs back to him, turning to approach the ice bucket where she does, indeed, have some wine still chilling. Refilling her glass - and pouring one for him as well - she offers it out for him. "Your trip treated you well?" It's an assumption despite the fact that she can see it's true; Dahlia wants to orbit him like a star, to take in everything new and different, to peel away the layers and see if she can find the core of him beneath.
She doesn't, of course. It isn't her place, and no amount of humanity can tempt her to break rank. (Yet).
"Good morning," she purrs back to him, turning to approach the ice bucket where she does, indeed, have some wine still chilling. Refilling her glass - and pouring one for him as well - she offers it out for him. "Your trip treated you well?" It's an assumption despite the fact that she can see it's true; Dahlia wants to orbit him like a star, to take in everything new and different, to peel away the layers and see if she can find the core of him beneath.
She doesn't, of course. It isn't her place, and no amount of humanity can tempt her to break rank. (Yet).
Let me see the heat get to it
