Then I suppose I better watch out, lest you try to get me drunk. You conniving thing.
[Joke received, and challenge accepted, in other words; for the briefest of moments, his arm goes around Tseng and his fingertips come to rest at the small of his back, the way that a bodyguard escort might rest a hand against their charge to guide them along a path. It's not a lengthy touch; his hand doesn't remain there for any duration. But it's a sweet touch nevertheless, and a possessive one, and an inviting one.
The inner workings of the penthouse prove just as elaborate as the view from the door; Rufus, having clearly spent enough time mapping out the environs to get his bearings (so as not to suffer the indignity of being lost in his own living space), leads them easily down a pristine hallway, past an atrium-style room that appears to be — of all bizarre things — a miniature personalized stretch of beach complete with mock-ocean — and into the room opposite the beach down the same hallway: a comfortable sort of recreational leisure room done up in blues and tans instead of stark white, with a full bar, a billiard table, and a range of seating from chairs to loveseats to divans.
He motions easily to the bartop, which is absent Rufus's usual touches of discarded half-drunk glasses or ignored napkins; evidently he hasn't used this room much since his ascension to the queen suite, though he's evidently aware of it.]
Take your pick. We could stay in here or go sit by the water — whichever you find more appealing.
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[Joke received, and challenge accepted, in other words; for the briefest of moments, his arm goes around Tseng and his fingertips come to rest at the small of his back, the way that a bodyguard escort might rest a hand against their charge to guide them along a path. It's not a lengthy touch; his hand doesn't remain there for any duration. But it's a sweet touch nevertheless, and a possessive one, and an inviting one.
The inner workings of the penthouse prove just as elaborate as the view from the door; Rufus, having clearly spent enough time mapping out the environs to get his bearings (so as not to suffer the indignity of being lost in his own living space), leads them easily down a pristine hallway, past an atrium-style room that appears to be — of all bizarre things — a miniature personalized stretch of beach complete with mock-ocean — and into the room opposite the beach down the same hallway: a comfortable sort of recreational leisure room done up in blues and tans instead of stark white, with a full bar, a billiard table, and a range of seating from chairs to loveseats to divans.
He motions easily to the bartop, which is absent Rufus's usual touches of discarded half-drunk glasses or ignored napkins; evidently he hasn't used this room much since his ascension to the queen suite, though he's evidently aware of it.]
Take your pick. We could stay in here or go sit by the water — whichever you find more appealing.