@corpose | a kiss from V.
The shimmer of a red cocktail dress is what catches her eye, at first. Across the bar, between the stiff suits of accounting and other offices she doesn't give a single fuck about.
The tequila cocktail in hand goes down easy, makes the room feel warm and hazy. But from the corner of the bar, cybernetic lenses watch as the woman sits on the opposite side, entertaining conversation with some higher up that looks just as painfully polite as much of the schmoozing is around here. So, she waves the barkeep over, indicates to add whatever drink the woman orders to her tab, and waits for a while until finally the suit leaves, and she turns her attention to the barkeep, and then, eyes meet across the bar.
So, Vitoria smiles, titanium teeth reflecting the light. Her black suit - a woman's cut worn exclusively for the office - keeps her figure trim. Hair parted to the side, tech-laced fingertips run over the shaved sides, fiddling with the edge of her collar. Normally, too many around here don't let themselves find pleasure in these parties, preferring to keep their noses up the bosses' asses, trying to get a leg up in the corporate rat-race when skills and success are what matter. So, she ignores the suits, grabbing her drink to move around the bar to the now open stool next to red dress, gracing her with a smile and that cocksure confidence of someone with enough rank and experience under her belt that she needn't partake in anything else.
"Judgin' by the look of things, you don't need to suck up like the rest of'em, either."
There's a pause, a drink. Names are exchanged, pleasantries aside. Drinks are had. Another round. Two. A third would be too much, so Vitoria clears her throat, digs out the gold cigarette case, silver old-school lighter engraved with the symbol of the Valentino gang -- a gift, from an old family friend -- and puts it on the bar top. Her tab is paid with a look, transferring the eddies to the bartender.
"Goin' out for a smoke... hope you come with me."
As she stands, a hand falls to Vi's bare knee, trailing fingertips along the skin just briefly with a glance cast over her shoulder. She doesn't look back but hears the steps behind her. A smirk tugs at the corner of her mouth, and soon, the pair of them are stood outside, around the corner. The night air is refreshing, and her thumb easily pulls the trigger of the lighter, flame snapping to life for both cigarettes in a single go, standing closer than not.
For a time and a few drags, small talk comes and goes, but when the butt is tossed to the ground, stamped out by a high heel (an inch or two, high as she'll wear), hands come forward and slip along the silky red fabric of Vi's dress at her hips, her sides, drawing them in together, lips meeting in a slow, casual manner; the taste of the same brand of cigs blends together with cocktails. Back hits the wall, and nails rake along Vitoria's scalp, followed by a moan muffled between their mouths.
Whether here, or elsewhere, this week's work party is soon forgotten.
