Caron Poivre: A Short Story

The room itself was soaked in nothing but Tilda’s wavering scent. Her favorite fragrance of Caron Poivre’s fine peppery heat infused with the undertone of a fine woodsy drawl. The only thing to drown out selected scent was the lit candles that had a jasmine fusion burning into the air making the atmosphere sultry and sensual. Tilda shifted her weight against the sofa, the split in her dress spreading further exposing her hip as it popped out at a tilt while she curled her legs with grace after kicking off her heels. She couldn’t help but run the edge of her fingertip along her rose tinted lips until her teeth bit down on her nail - it was almost suggestive as her eyes gleamed with pride melting fiercely.

As he approached her apart of her felt like a tiny
“A name huh. . . “ There had been plenty of things she had named throughout her lifetime, none really ever with any real meaning or effort. But this one sat like a weight on the tip of her tongue, the resisted impulse to not jump so quickly to whatever came to mind. Like a mother trying to find the appropriate name for their child Tilda sat in a lapsed silence for a long moment before sighing. “Oh I don’t know. . .” she became restless with in seconds disentangling him from her lap getting to her feet, her gown spilling down her legs as she circled about the room.

“Well, you can make yourself useful - I’ll think up a name and you can veto it if you don’t feel partial to it.” she suggested folding her thin limbs over her chest continuing to pace around the spacious room. “Veto just to clarify means ‘reject’ - I’m not sure how intelligent mister Romanov made you but I hope I won’t have to baby you.” although she had to admit there was a certain ego stroke in her own nature of possibly having knowledge over someone who may lack