"Hey," a voice drew him out of the deep focus.
Terri stared at him with squinted eyes. "All right, I know enough," she declared and pointed at the right door towards her feet. "There's oil and ointment on the headboard of my bed. Go get it."
What? Marke blinked. "Why wouldn't you mention that beforehand?"
Her brows furrowed, and Marke knew she was annoyed.
"Got it." It was all going well, and he didn't want to ruin it. A red light from a keypad glared at him. "Passcode?" He asked.
"Open," Terri said.
With a click and the light on the keypad turning red, the door opened.
He entered the expansive room; a painting over the massive bedside of an older Black gentleman holding a baby sitting on a chair was the first item that entered his view. To his right, through the curtain walls, he could see the entire estate, skyscrapers towering across the street, and on the corner a litany of medals, all gold, hung from a rusty nail.
On the bed, several necklaces and chains and expensive branded bags were strewn about with abandon, as though the owner cared little for them.
Grabbing the bottle of almond oil, he rushed out of the room, just as uncaring of jewels as the owner was because simply they weren't his.
Closing the door behind him, he found the woman sat up with her legs crossed, areolas faint yet announcing their presence through the see-through material of her robe; Marke held himself back from staring at her thighs, the sight of the white thong between her legs a recurring image in his mind.
"Okay," she nodded. "You're pretty experienced at giving massages, kid; I give you that. But Ola told me there was something special about you, and I haven't seen it."
She was asking for the bulldozing, and she had the body of someone who could put up a fight, muscled thickness like a warrior queen from ancient times.
Setting the massage oil on the armrest, he walked up behind the woman, her gaze following him all the while.
He reached down and unfurled the knot of her robe on her abdomen and pushed it off her shoulders.
She didn't resist, even helping by shrugging her shoulders.
A smirk played on Marke's lips at her acquiescence.
The robes pooled around her hips, her E-cup—he estimated—breasts out in the open, a diamond navel piercing adorning her abs with a minuscule waist that flared out into a ginormous booty, the waistband of her thong struggling on the upper half of her derriere.
He would have to remind Mrs. Olivarez to wear a thong next time she visited.
His dragon rose against his pants, begging to be let free.
We must have her begging in our arms, General. He referred with respect. Then we shall breach through her defenses and invade, and finally humble the woman.
"Do you mind dirtying the couch?" He whispered into her ears.
She wasn't one to back down. She turned to face him, looking up with a sultry expression and blowing a minty breath into his mouth. "No," she replied, leaning forward, lips just inches apart, "I bought it to be dirtied, Marke."
Marke was enchanted by her eyes. "You have beautiful eyes," he complimented. "Like a fox demon."
"A Yokai?"
Marke blinked, bewildered. How could she possibly know that?
"What?" She asked. "My grandmother was Japanese."
When he was younger, at instances like these, he would've asked if they ever watched anime or read light novels, only for them to look at him weird. He had given Terri plenty of reasons to think he was weird already, and he didn't feel the need to add one more.
"And thank you," she added, smiling.
"The rest of you isn't bad either," he said, testing the limits.
"I know, sweetie," she replied with a slight smile. "I can't be so sure about yours."
A sharp mouth. "You can observe later," he said. "While you melt under my machinations."
Mrs. Terri snorted in laughter, covering her mouth. "You're goofy," she said.
Shrugging, Marke walked before her, laced his left arm under her knees and another around her hip, and lifted her up in a princess carry, Terri gasping and holding onto his neck.
She glared at him.
"I don't think I'm all that bad either." Curling an arm around her hip fully, he let go of the other arm and brought the woman close, breasts in brassiere pressing against his right pectorals and shoulders.
Goddamn. He complained internally. She's heavy. It was muscle heavy, more than fat heavy, but hefty was hefty, and holding the woman with just one hand was a feat that was difficult. He was, however, glad for investing that stat point into strength, or else he would've made a fool of himself.
To show he was struggling on his face, especially before a woman he wished to see humbled, would only hurt his pride, followed by shame.
With his free arm, he grabbed her thighs, feeling the supple and silky exterior of her skin, moisturized daily, he guessed, and the solid muscles beneath, and brought it to his side.
Meeting his eyes with a sultry smirk, Mrs. Terri coiled her legs around his hips with no need for words, her core pressing against his crotch.
"I'm not that bad under either," he said, and let go of her hips, forcing Mrs. Terri to hold on, and raised his hand. "You can check it out."
"Have you seen those medals in my room?" She let go of his neck, legs clamped around his hips like a vise. "Most of them are from gymnastics." Reaching for the hem of his shirt, she pulled it upwards and off his arms, tossing it to the side in one swift motion. Her gaze lingered on his upper half, observing each muscle. "Not bad," she praised. "Not bad at all."
The woman wasn't struggling at all, not even pretending to. From her behavior, Marke knew she wanted him to make a move, to show him her special skills. She wanted to be manhandled or play a submissive role in this particular arrangement of theirs, which was the conclusion he was drawing.
All right then. "Hold on tight," he suggested and took a few steps, grabbing the almond massage oil all under the bewildered gaze of Mrs. Terri. "Let's not dirty up your couch," he said. "Let's try a massage standing up."