Our Dark Prince (The Scottish Play)

LXIV. Be My Angel For The Night

10
Scott
Buenos Aires, Argentina 
San Telmo, Midasʼ Court
Territory: Pinochet
July 11th, 2004
Time: 8:30 PM 
_____________________________

The winter came to Scott with the lustful rage of Buenos Airesʼ sharp winds. With the teeth of a lover, the romantic cobblestone streets of San Telmo – at the heart of Buenos Airesʼ old city – opened into a moonlit courtyard, seduced by the artisan candlemarkerʼs shop around the corner. As the night made love to the stars above, the antique shops and tango parlors yearned for the attention of the streetwalkers.

      The whispers among the Argentine people were like hers, soft and sweet, as Scott moved quietly. Her voice danced in his head, melting with Robin DeMarcusʼ, a string of sweet nothings: close to Dorrego Café, she wrote, past the artisan guild. His mind was racing, pounding, as Robinʼs took over: Maybe next time weʼll finish what we started. In flagrante, their voices consumed him, kissing each other.

Scott huffed. Look for the only French styled house on the street, she wrote.

The Prince Estate carried itself with the same cold opulence and regality he had come to know. A flagship of the Prince empire in Latin America, the San Telmo house carried a colonial air to it, where the sins of the darkness crested into the hunger of the past. And as he pushed through the gate, sidestepped the guards to the secret back entrance, climbing the worn steps, he sighed.

         This is a horrible mistake.

"In here," she called to him.

The candles burned. She stood there, only wearing an ornate dragon necklace around her neck, the melting wax lost in curves of her body. The scent of waning rosé wafted around Scott like marvelous fiction. Delightful, surreal and sad, half-divine, semi-demon, and as he saw her, his throat dried. The penthouse suite was illusive, like his demon hunting blade that glistened against the silver streams of moonlight, and she inched towards him, watching him drink in the hollow of her throat, her small frame, taking off his jacket. The rain rolled into Buenos Aires in little waves, little streams of sorrow as cold as black as death.

Emilia Prince. Desdemona and Caïnʼs b*stard daughter.

His angel for the night.

"Hi, stranger," she murmured against his lips, taking his undershirt and stripping it from navel to neck.

"Hi...stranger," he said simply, his mouth opening up to hers, her br*sts filling his hands. Roughly turning Emilia around, his hands on her waist, Scott moved his attention to her neck, slow, sensual. The record player sang sordidly, buzzing and whirring absently. Pouring a glass of chardonnay, Emilia watched Scott relish in the heated sensations. Loved seeing what made him tick, what got him hard. 

"Thatʼs a creative way of saying hello," Emilia hummed. Surging his lips against hers with a hungry fervor, teeth clashing, Chuckling, her insistent mouth parting his lips, Scott felt absolutely electric. Every shiver, she provoked by biting his bottom lip or licking the top. Every tremor that ran through him, she invoked ten-fold, making him fantasize about her mouth. The kiss was teasing, underscoring his lust in ways he didnʼt even know was possible, and as Scottʼs tongue traced the seams of Emiliaʼs, his hands desperately on her, twirling her around to face him, smothering her petite frame in his, he felt her...

       Someone will hear us. But only if you make me scream.

F*ck.

Scott closed his eyes, holding onto Emilia for dear life