He takes her hand, kissing the backs of her fingers with a suave flourish, his cold lips lingering against her warm knuckles. She giggles coyly behind the fingers of her free hand, the silver of her ring catching the light from the chandeliers overhead. Her skirts sigh and shiver against the smooth marble floor as he leads her out into the centre
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It was his eyes that drew her in the beginning, she knows. Deep and mysterious; beautiful as the man himself. She loves his eyes most, she thinks. She loves what she can see there -- all the stars, the expanse of galaxies, the length of years that threaten to swallow her whole. She feels tiny and meaningless beneath his gaze, but also unique. He still looks at her, sees her, acknowledges her, and she is the only one in this entire room who is given that.
That is especially stunning. My husband better give me at least one good look before the day is over or he is SOOO in trouble. ;)
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*giggles* All husbands should take a note from the Master when it comes to looking at their wives, this is trufax. (Just skip the whole, you know, megalomaniac bits and stuff.)
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(And I mean, the rest is just a few, small details. Totally ignorable.)
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(Completely, agreed! Though megalomaniacs tend to be so very charming...)
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