Let them eat cake.
Warm sun spilled in the window, dappling the room of the Tuscan villa with golden beams. Wine, expensive and lushly hued, filled paper-thin stems with liquid ruby. "You know, they're probably foreclosing on the Whitmans' house today. Possibly even right now." His tone was idly speculative, entirely unconcerned with two suddenly poor people in Providence, far more interested in the naked woman two feet away. Long lashes and brown eyes looked over the wine glass, and the expression on her face would have been sultry, had it carried a hint of heat. Instead, it was steel cold, remorseless, and that was its own kind of turn on.
Her head turned towards the clock, did some quick math, lips curving into a satisfied smile. "You're probably right." Neal and Emily Whitman, along with plenty of others from their congregation had invested in their scheme, not privy to the part of the business plan where a loophole, a wig, a pretty girl and tax code took their life savings and put it to better use. The Liar's uses, Deacon's uses. They weren't really using it anyway, not like they would. They would give it life, instead of rotting in a bank.
Looking at the bag of cash and her sleek curves, inspiration struck. "Have you ever had sex on two hundred thousand dollars?" She shook her head no. "Neither have I." Almost simultaneously, they rolled out of bed, reaching for the bag of 'spare cash'.
They took their time about it, sliding with each thrust on slippery paper and chill coins. Photos wearing only money and a post-coital flush, quick snaps of gloating and glee before returning to the pursuit of pleasure. It was a competitive heat, one that suited them, devoid of love, empty of affection. Simply an appreciation for the other, and the lack of the necessity for pretense.
She stretched, when they finally finished, arching her back and sighing as he discarded yet another condom. "They should thank us, I think. The money is so much more useful as mattress padding."
Her head turned towards the clock, did some quick math, lips curving into a satisfied smile. "You're probably right." Neal and Emily Whitman, along with plenty of others from their congregation had invested in their scheme, not privy to the part of the business plan where a loophole, a wig, a pretty girl and tax code took their life savings and put it to better use. The Liar's uses, Deacon's uses. They weren't really using it anyway, not like they would. They would give it life, instead of rotting in a bank.
Looking at the bag of cash and her sleek curves, inspiration struck. "Have you ever had sex on two hundred thousand dollars?" She shook her head no. "Neither have I." Almost simultaneously, they rolled out of bed, reaching for the bag of 'spare cash'.
They took their time about it, sliding with each thrust on slippery paper and chill coins. Photos wearing only money and a post-coital flush, quick snaps of gloating and glee before returning to the pursuit of pleasure. It was a competitive heat, one that suited them, devoid of love, empty of affection. Simply an appreciation for the other, and the lack of the necessity for pretense.
She stretched, when they finally finished, arching her back and sighing as he discarded yet another condom. "They should thank us, I think. The money is so much more useful as mattress padding."