How he enjoyed that taste of her skin. Heated and warm from the touch of the water, softened by those creams and scented with soaps and body wash. He relished in that plethora of sensation. The scent and taste alone were nothing short of appealing as his lips peppered her skin in those sweet and yet ardent kisses that betrayed both his simple affection and adoration for her and too- his own near animalistic need to replace those scents that marked her skin with his own, no matter how small. Darcy nothing if not a territorial creature in every sense. Especially when it came to his Mistress and Lover. Yet- that very room remained her territory alone, even if she had deemed to share it. The intricacies of a vampiric relationship ever delicate. A dangerous minefield of human and animalistic intention that seemed ever fickle. Darcy, as always, inclined to watch his lovers' movements. To feel each subtle and yet powerful movement within her figure from the place his hand rested upon her side. The man ever watchful for even a hint of dissatisfaction. Darcy, after all, was nothing if not dutiful in his desire to please. Even if it was very much his own needs he strove to meet in that moment as his lips swept her flesh in that affection embrace. The desire to bite, to mark her flesh with his own fangs in a veritable branding of sorts tugged at the back of his mind and yet how careful he was to prevent his fangs from touching her skin tonight.

That glass of wine had hardly gone unnoticed. Tonight, he was certain, he would be gifted no more from her then whatever small touches she deemed tolerable. Anything more intimate surely cast far from her mind. The vampiric cowboy hardly fully enough to push tonight After all, sex was so eternally on Risqeus command alone. How much of her he might be allowed to enjoy at her discretion entirely and tonight, he was certain, he would receive little by way of physical intimacy. Some wretched fool had displeased her. Ruined her mood. He was certain of it. How intense that disdain he felt flicker within himself for such an individual! Later. They would pay for it later. If they had not already. Darcy forced his thoughts away from the failings of idiots. That protective aggression simmering for now as he held up that unusual cream that she clearly desired he use, his query of just where it went met with that near blatant insistence it was for his face. As if such a thing should have been obvious. Darcy assured he would not make that mistake again. The vampiric man quickly learned from even the smallest of errors. Risque, after all, had set those rules for his sharing ehr room quickly. Darcy having learned within no more then two nights what would and would not be tolerated. What he was and was not permitted to do and just how she expected 'their' room to be kept in a state of lavish, meticulous order.

Darcy shifted slightly away from her then, stepping out from behind his mate to come to her side as she reached for her own cream before beginning that demonstration of how she so clearly desired he apply that cream. Her emphasis upon the word clean so hardly missed as she began to massage the white cream into her face in a circular motion. Risque lamenting the idiocy of the human race and their apparent desire to slap that cream on. A near baffled look so managed to find its way to the vampires' own features then. Darcy content to frown at the idea of slapping and the ridiculous existence of the human species at all. It was a wonder the damn fools survived- before Risques near sudden pause in her words sharply brought his gaze upward to her own. The near hypnotic blue of her own eyes roved downward with near predatory ease before falling upon his own boxer shorts. That unusually....colourful pattern seeming to have ensnared her attention as a singular, manicured brow rose sharply in question. Did she disapprove of them? Those French lyrics were near melodious in their utterance as she queried his choice and whether or not they brought him luck- or if he merely felt...rowdy. Darcy's own head simply shook.

"I ain't make it a habit of relyin' on luck, Darlin. It's 'bout mathematics an bein' better at it den me opponent, 'bout knowin' me cards better, 'bout workin' it out faster den dem. As for da rowdy, ya know I'm always spoilin for a fight on gamblin' nights. More people, more money, more blood waitin for a lil spill."

His lip quirked ever so slightly in that flicker of amusement. A singular fang exposed with the gesture. Darcy eternally content to take anything On offer from those beings who dared to sit at his high roller tables. Money was pleasing and yet the very blood from their veins was always so much more....satisfying. The mere colour to his skin alone surely giving away just how well he had fed tonight. Risque gestured toward that cream again then, that singular gesture all that was required to see the vampiric cowboy move swiftly to obey- even if he so hardly understood the idea of these....creams. His hand reached forward to turn on that tap, his free hand reached for a face cloth before running it beneath the facet and lifting it to his face to wipe it clean- as instructed. The cowboy then proceeded to apply that cream to his fingers, followed by his face, rubbing it within that same circular motion Risque had insisted upon. This was....fucking girly. Then again, he supposed, it hardly smelled terribly. The man willing, once more, to appease his lover.

His query on just which television show she desired to watch before the sun rose however seemed to ensnare her thoughts once more before her gaze shifted again to his boxer shorts. Her features tormentingly unreadable as she reached for her wine, the glass drawn to her lips before declaring her preference for that...model show Darcy so hardly understood. Jon Snow, it seemed, had exhausted her patience. None of those other characters deemed worthy for the iron throne. Risque, it seemed, hardly desiring to embrace the political bloodshed of such a program this evening. Darcy, in turn, content enough to have those fashions explained to him as he read his magazines.

"As yar wish. I ain't like dat Jon Snow much. I ain't mind dat Dragon girl 'hough. Daenerys. She git's shit done."

It was hardly rare, in the confines of that bedroom,that the pair fell into discussion of that program. Risque so often content to take pleasure in those characters with obscure motivation. Her grasp of the politics of royal society was far more advanced than his own. Darcy inclined to find a fascination in it. The cowboy, in turn, enjoyed those military aspects. The both of them relishing in the continual bloodshed that show seemed to provide even if Darcy found himself near ravenous in those more brutal episodes. Such freely opened veins, after all, so eagerly prompted his own hunger. That Model show was far less inclined to gore and sex and yet, once more, his lover seemed to relish in the politics of those games the women played. The black towel fell smoothly from Risque's figure as she hung it upon the rack. Darcy, in that moment, so readily allowing his gaze to rove over her femanine figure. Her midnight hair, falling like a cascade of obsidian, only further tugging at that sheer want within him. The dull ache readily settled within his groin. She was perfection upon this earth. In every way. Her body was nothing short of....divine. How unfortunate that she chose that....kitty set of pajamas tonight. Darcys hopes of any further 'luck' so quickly cast aside.

The last of the cream was rubbed smoothly into his face as Risque finished dressing and reached for her wine once more. Darcy stepped back and out of the bathroom then, his bare feet padding across the tile before stepping back into the bedroom to reach for the television remote and find that program, saved and recorded, that risque desired to view tonight. The television, neatly situated on the wall at the end of the bed, readily flared into life as Darcy moved to turn off the rest of the lights. The television alone offered a near ethereal glow to the room as Risque commented upon the wine. Darcy's turned to face her once more.

"Hmm? Da wine? Alright."

The vampire tossed that remote onto the bed before making his way to the decanter upon the table and pouring himself a glass of that liquid, the scent of it alone so readily ensnaring his attention. The wine holding a decidedly....bloodied scent. A rich and rare scent at that. The curiosity upon his features was surely clear as he lifted it to his lips,that taste surprising and yet undeniable on his tongue. Even those few molecules of blood so quickly triggered that flood of saliva to his mouth as a sound of appreciation rumbled within his throat.

"Dat is good. Which one is dis? I like dis. We had dis on 'efore?"

How rarely he had ever tasted Fae blood and yet how utterly potent that taste. The man near savouring that liquid upon his tongue as he held the wine glass neatly within his fingertips as Risque had instructed it be done all those years ago. It was decidedly...rare for the pair to forgo that evening talk. Each content to share with the other the nuances of their evenings, those employees that had displeased them or events that had somehow affected the business. Rarer still were those nights in which something of amusement happened and yet this evening his mate so hardly seemed...inclined to that usual discussion. Darcy so simply capable of feeling that very displeasure within her. As if those very bonds of mate-hood whispered of those very things in a subtle undertone he could hardly describe and yet felt all the same. Her night truly had been soured. Perhaps, tonight, he would bring only that singular manner of intrigue to her attention.

Darcy lifted his glass to his lips once more, another sip of that wine taken before he made his way to the bed. The wine glass was placed neatly on the bedside table as he drew back the bed covers for them before settling himself upon his side of the bed. Darcy lent back agianst the headboard then, leaning in that upright position as he reached for the glass again- just as those models came onto the screen. Tonight's episode promised a series of tears and tantrums as the women fought to make the cover of one magazine of another. Each of them tasked tonight with attempting to take a seductive photo with a male model.

"Ya comin' ta bed, Darlin?"

His mismatched gaze lifted to his mate once more before gesturing to that place beside him. That bed, he was certain, a far more comfortable place to watch that program from as they so often did in the evenings. Risque, it seemed, already taken with eyeing those outfits the women argued over with critical care. Darcy reached for his phone, the man content to briefly scroll that evening news, his gaze cutting upward sharply each time Risque commented upon a singular outfit. The man quick to agree with her pertinent criticisms. He understood little of those outfits after all. His efforts to engage within that program so usually met with his lovers insistence he had no eye for what was this season as opposed to last season. His description of a pair of shoes as 'black' having very near thrown Risque into a tirade on how they had, in fact, been midnight blue. Darcy having learned early on it was far easier to simply agree with Risques own observations. Princess, satisfied that both her Master and his mate had settled in bed, was quick to stride across those covers and settle at their feet. The lynx, as she had been trained to do, content to guard that bed from any of the other felines who lingered nearby. Darcy, after all, was loath to share that space with any save Risque. Even her felines met with that flash of his own fangs if they intruded upon that decidedly personal territory. Princess alone so permitted by the man if only for her task of keeping the others at bay- save for the occasional feline Risque herself chose to warm her feet. A low hiss from Princess drew the man's eyes upward from his phone. Seated across that room the large, long haired ginger tom had taken up a place upon a chair, his yellow eyes glaring with disdain at Darcy from across the room. Darcy, for now remained determined to ignore it.

"Ya seen this, Darlin?"

He waited until that advertisement came onto the screen before leaning over to offer his phone to his lover, the screen displaying a news article and picture of two vampires. One immaculately dressed. The other wearing the loose jeans and hooded jackets Risque seemed to feel were a sin upon earth (Darcy listened to some of her fashion critique clearly). The caption beneath that picture naming that pair of vampires to be Guitar legend Arlo James and close companion HRH Sebastian Ellingtion-Aragona, The Prince of Italy. Darcy proceeded to gesture to the first then. The guitarist in his unfashionable clothing.

"Yar even seen one of dem 'efore? Dis 'ere article says he's one o'dem 'Crusnik's'. I ain't never 'eard dat word 'efore. I looked it up. A Crusnik is a breed o vampire dat feeds on other vampires. Dare venom is toxic to us, knocks us out. You ever 'eard of dem? Rarer den Fae day say. Lives in dis city too dat one does. He's gotta be 'untin' vamps in da city. Reckon we should be on da look out for 'im. Bad for business if a ting like dat starts feedin' on our clients."

Risque was older then himself, his lover perhaps far more familiar with that unusual vampiric breed then Darcy himself. The vampiric cowboy distinctly....displeased at the idea of a vampire....predator roaming close to Syn. A part of the cowboy equally as disgusted such a creature existed. His gaze shifted to his mate once more. Risques own eyes seeming to have settled upon that so called 'Prince' in the photo beside him. Darcy readily content to scowl at the mere idea of his mate eyeing that decidedly....attractive man.

"He's gay, dat one."

That, he was sure, would be enough to dispel whatever it was that seemed to have attracted Risque's attention upon the man. Darcy, it seemed, unwilling to allow his lover to so much as eye a picture of another man he deemed not....unattractive. That jealousy content to flare at even a moment's notice. Darcy was a distinctly territorial creature in every sense. His finger flicked across the screen then, scrolling further down in that story to a picture of the Prince and his Fae husband. The Italian King. Dorian.....something or other.

"Dat's 'is 'usband. A vampire married to a fucking fae. He's old too dat Fae. Real old. Be worth millions dat blood. Reckon dat 'as to be why da vamp married 'im. Dare 'as ta be- dat damn cat's starin at me again, darlin'. I know you say it ain't gonna do nuthin' but I swear ta god he done fuckin' stop glarin' at me!"

Those words, it seemed, were forgotten mid sentence. That royal gossip cast aside momentarily as Darcy pointed toward that ginger cat once more as it continued to glare at him from across the room. The creature waiting, he was certain, for him to fall asleep before carrying out whatever revenge it had planned. Stupid fucking cat.

We are rough men and used to rough ways.