As much as it might have sounded like a very romantic episode with pink, heart-shaped petals flying everywhere, jumping out of a novel, it was not. It was very embarrassing for me.
I pulled away quickly and, sheepishly fixing the creases on my favorite coat—a pitch-dark double-breasted waistcoat, I turned to face my cause for shame, ahem...I mean, savior, yes, that.
It was difficult to conceal the displeasure on my face. Mind you, there were many workers adorned in their finest suits and apparel busy working in that average-sized lobby. And I had a bit of an outstanding reputation amongst them.
Yet, I had almost kissed the conniving floor that just couldn't stop spinning and, even away from that shameful fate, I had been pressed against a man's chest quite intimately. And who knew how much the creature had felt down there... I shuddered, unwilling to think further, then peevishly brought my gaze to the...the...the...I gaped, dumbstruck, was I about to say 'the fiend'? My thoughts came to an abrupt blank. Why did I feel that 'heaven-defyingly good-looking living sculpture' would fit so much better?
I bit my lip, my eyes tracing the lines of that broad, muscular abdomen of which the black waistcoat clung. I wondered what a woman could do to be that waistcoat, if only for a second, or a night perhaps. I gulped at my thoughts—my dirty, vulgar, but very much so sincere, thoughts. Suddenly, the floor wasn't spinning. I wasn't seeing doubles anymore either. If I was, I dunno what other vulgar thoughts would have encroached my mind.
Right. My eyes were then fixed on this one, erect figure that stood on long, slender legs, radiating power and dominance—the utmost epitome of elegance and grace combined. A dominance which I wouldn't have minded to be pressed against once again. He was incredibly good-looking, with a cold, forbidding charm which I would have never thought in my life could leave me as spellbound and wordless as it did that fateful evening.
His strong jaw and chiseled face that seemed specially crafted and formulated by the gods, with each twist of his thin, covetous lips articulate and flawless, and his deep, dark eyes transfixing like a sky suffused with stars. His very embodiment conspired to leave me breathless. His captivating visage was framed by dark, neat hair, with not a strand or a wisp out of place, as though he did his hair with a tooth comb. But, blimey, he did not look modest enough to do his own hair. Of course, he looked like the type of man who would have dozens of hairdressers at his beck and call. But, 'type of man'? He looked like a being of his own kind, his own 'league', definitely not from the wretched, murky streets I was conversant with. My lips curled down with displeasure at the demeaning thought, as valid as it was.
I was swimming in numberless thoughts simply at the sight of him; thrown into a labyrinth of speculations, such that it never occurred to me to question his presence in that ramshackle building nor did the several other people beside him, who looked exceedingly important, register in my mind.
That is, until a tall, bulky man stepped towards me, his dark, umbra-like shadow engulfing my figure that seemed so small and insubstantial in that darkness.
"Move," said the gigantic man with eyes as cold as a skeleton's bones. He was dressed in brown regalia, with black stripes here and there, and a dazzling coat of arms at his chest which I wasn't clear-headed enough to decipher.
His skin was darker than any shade I had ever seen on a human and his eyes were crimson. Yes, you heard me right, crimson. It was as though, reigning in his eyes was a sea of blood and chaos, but also an unnerving twinge of placidity. I wondered if it was placid due to how much the fellow had seen the same violence and tragedy over and over again, until, finally, losing interest in it. Thus, placid.
As though possessed, I did not move an inch, nor flinch for that matter, even after the towering man ordered me to move aside. I think I had been overtaken by shock at the sheer size of the man, for he was huge, enormous even! If I were to lump him and a bear together, you would not be able to tell the difference.
I shuffled to the side, however, before he could give me a taste of the weapon I knew he would be having somewhere in his cloak, supposing that the aforementioned weapon was not his fists.
The crimson-eyed man narrowed his eyes frostily at me before shifting to walk behind the cold statue that I now realized could have been his master. There were two other people in that eye-catching entourage, but neither was as striking as Mr. Gorgeous and Mr. Crimson.
One of them was adorned in a checkered waistcoat and maroon pants, his short, light brown hair disheveled and his spectacles crooked on the bridge of his nose. He radiated a distinct yet fleeting air of nobility and walked with a certain solidity in his steps that could not be duplicated. He was indeed charming, though a significant twenty levels below Mr. Gorgeous.
My lips twitched, quizzical as to why that infallible figure could not escape my thoughts, as though the sight of him had left an indelible imprint in my mind. I knew the answer to that though.
Anyways. The other good sir was downright nerve-wracking. From the edges of his spiky, black hair that stuck out at wacky angles to the tips of his oversized, pointed black boots, he looked like a penniless clown who performed in alleys for the drunkards. Oh, do pardon me, I have beef with clowns.
Quickly though, I was back to reminiscing the sensation of my back pressed against a certain hard, manly chest. Butterflies, or something colorful and fuzzy like that, filtered into my stomach, a warm blush suffusing my cheeks. But every trace of color drained from my face as I recalled the briefcase that I still held in my grasp—a very, very weighty briefcase that I was meant to take in the same corridor that that unfamiliar group had vanished into.
And then a thought hit me: 'Are those people here for the boss?' If this was indeed so, I then knew for certain that it was for nothing good, and our boss was, most indeed, in hot soup.
Still, I did have to transport the briefcase, didn't I? Even if it was my last job in this troubling company.
Musing this, I strode into the corridor, disappearing into the eerie darkness only slightly vanquished by the fading torchlight. A whistle escaped my lips and an excited grin creased my visage. Of course, I was not going there to see more of Mr. Gorgeous. Of course not; what would that make me?
I heard a giggling voice inside me reply, A stalker.
"Don't be silly now," I couldn't help but deny, audibly, but then I hastily covered my loose lips with one hand, face redder than ever from embarrassment.
The sensation of his muscular chest returned to my mind, my face warming. I bit my lip. Dastardly imagination! And dastardly good memory!