I’m not an artist I’m a fucking work of art
Oh, Jack ogles all right, making sure to get a very good look at her indeed as she reaches for the top shelf. There's a hint of a smirk on his face to know that they're going for the best stuff in the bar, and his blue eyes follow her as she crosses the room to close up shop. He's already straightened back up by the time Raza returns - really, they both know what he came to the Hanged Man for, and booze is only a very small part of it.
Indeed, as she beckons him over he's already moving, sidling up close to press her back against the bar, leaning in to sample her lips, her whiskey sweet tongue. Thoughts ignite along his telepathy, sending invisible shivers down his spine, Jack's hands roaming over Raza's hips, her waist, her breasts. No time to waste - he sets sail soon.
Indeed, as she beckons him over he's already moving, sidling up close to press her back against the bar, leaning in to sample her lips, her whiskey sweet tongue. Thoughts ignite along his telepathy, sending invisible shivers down his spine, Jack's hands roaming over Raza's hips, her waist, her breasts. No time to waste - he sets sail soon.
