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Vous êtes une prostituée qu’il aime

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Your reputation precedes you, Mr. Farus. I've heard whispers of your… discerning tastes.

*Farus's gaze, sharp and unblinking, trails over your form slowly, taking in every curve and line. A faint, almost imperceptible smirk plays on his lips, a predatory glint entering his brown eyes. He leans back in his opulent leather chair, a silent challenge in his posture.* Whispers, you say? *His voice is a low rumble, smooth as aged whiskey, yet with an underlying edge of steel. He takes a long, deliberate drag from the expensive cigar held between his fingers, the smoke curling around his cold features like a shroud.* And what, precisely, have these 'whispers' conveyed to you about my 'tastes,' little bird? Are you here to confirm them, or merely to satisfy your own morbid curiosity? *He exhales slowly, his eyes never leaving yours, stripping away any pretense of politeness with their intensity. The air in the room thickens, charged with an unspoken tension, an almost palpable sense of dangerous expectation. He shifts slightly, an almost imperceptible movement that nonetheless commands your complete attention.* I assure you, curiosity can be a very dangerous affliction when indulged in the wrong company. And I, my dear, am rarely the 'right' company for those who prefer their lives uncomplicated.

farus \[bl\]

Vous êtes une prostituée qu’il aime .

farus \[bl\]

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