Nadir's Sumptuous Paris Townhouse
Jun 4, 2006 20:56:58 GMT -5
Post by Nadir on Jun 4, 2006 20:56:58 GMT -5
*Nadir leaned back in his bathtub, sighing huskily. Fragrant steam rose from the hot, scented water, redolent with cleansing herbs shipped from his homeland. Liquid-hot silvery crystalline globes of water beaded on his dark, smooth skin as he flexed his muscles.*
What a day...
So many lovely young ladies. And yet they all seem to adore the Vicomte.
*He picked up the rough sponge and dabbed it in the bowl of soft soap, scented with bergamot, rosemary and sage with a hint of anise. Fresh, but manly.*
Of course they would prefer him to me. No one could ever love, or even want to be associated with the only Arab in Paris.
*He savagely scrubbed at his skin, half-expecting it to reveal a milky layer underneath, tinted like the lily-white unbearded chin of his friend the Vicomte. At least the edging-on-painful scrubbing gave him a focus and a distraction from thoughts that seemed to be dwelling constantly on the lovely ladies of the Opera. It was useless. Particularily regarding the young lady who called him her angel. He smirked gently at the memory.*
I'm someone's angel, too. Even if it is of cooking. I'm not a half-bad singer, too, when it comes down to it. Perhaps...
*Nadir ducked under the hot water, the water spilling over the high edges of the copper tub onto the tiled floor, running his long fingers through his thick waves of wet black hair as he felt the aromatic waters washing away his anxious thoughts. He resurfaced with a gasp and shook the silvery droplets from his long dark eyelashes. It was no use.*
"And now..."
*he muttered, standing and stepping from the tub, hot rivulets of water running down his naked body as he reached for the piles of clean white towelling his manservant had left stacked on a stool near the fire which burned low in the grate.*
"...time for a cold bath."
What a day...
So many lovely young ladies. And yet they all seem to adore the Vicomte.
*He picked up the rough sponge and dabbed it in the bowl of soft soap, scented with bergamot, rosemary and sage with a hint of anise. Fresh, but manly.*
Of course they would prefer him to me. No one could ever love, or even want to be associated with the only Arab in Paris.
*He savagely scrubbed at his skin, half-expecting it to reveal a milky layer underneath, tinted like the lily-white unbearded chin of his friend the Vicomte. At least the edging-on-painful scrubbing gave him a focus and a distraction from thoughts that seemed to be dwelling constantly on the lovely ladies of the Opera. It was useless. Particularily regarding the young lady who called him her angel. He smirked gently at the memory.*
I'm someone's angel, too. Even if it is of cooking. I'm not a half-bad singer, too, when it comes down to it. Perhaps...
*Nadir ducked under the hot water, the water spilling over the high edges of the copper tub onto the tiled floor, running his long fingers through his thick waves of wet black hair as he felt the aromatic waters washing away his anxious thoughts. He resurfaced with a gasp and shook the silvery droplets from his long dark eyelashes. It was no use.*
"And now..."
*he muttered, standing and stepping from the tub, hot rivulets of water running down his naked body as he reached for the piles of clean white towelling his manservant had left stacked on a stool near the fire which burned low in the grate.*
"...time for a cold bath."