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Crimson Claws

13.

He had noticed her as soon as he had entered the bar area. It was impossible to miss someone like that, even though she had her back turned to him and everyone else as she sat at the counter.

And what a back it was!

Sitting in the chair, her black cocktail dress, which seemed to be made only of lace, was not really eye-catching. It was elegant, showed enough skin to be sexy and yet was unobtrusive - if this woman with this body hadn't been in it. But at the back, after two shiny buttons at the neck, this lace parted in the most inviting way, the fabric revealing a back that looked infinitely graceful and soft in this light, exposing and flattering flawlessly tanned skin. To achieve this effect, she had her long dark-brown curls styled into a simple-looking but anything but easy to achieve updo. All the more charming because it broke the perfection - the dozens of liver spots on that long back. He - and certainly everyone else who was greeted with this sight as soon as they entered the bar - had to think about where else beauty spots were hidden. She had to wear a backless bra and exploring that was suddenly the only thought on his mind. But he was no run-of-the-mill office boy or tourist with slightly deeper pockets who saw this lady as part of the Plaza experience. He was better than that and that was precisely why he would end up with what others could only fantasize about.

With his usual trademark smirk - charming and menacing at the same time - the bartender, whose hypnotized cow-eyed gaze had lifted from the lady at his counter just for him, understood. Like the predator he was, he sauntered over to his usual table in the corner and sank into the soft upholstery. Less than a minute later, he was nursing his daquiri.

Now he also saw her from the side. And this face kept what the body promised. Wow. It was often hard to tell with women. But he suspected that if she removed her subtle make-up, she would still be an eye-catcher. Only the burgundy lipstick - his trademark color, as if heaven wanted to give him a sign - accentuated the perfection. There was no way she was a model. She had too much bosom and bottom for that. And he, although he had preferred beanpoles in earlier years, had recently taken a liking to actually having something in his hands. She wasn't a high-priced hooker or escort girl either. He had seen those, he had been there.

He knew he was staring, the glass with his drink lingering at his mouth. But at least he wasn't leering hollowly and lecherously like pretty much everyone else in the bar. God, even the Perssons who lived here three floors below him as permanent guests were gawking and they were both over seventy. But this lady, and yes he really was using LADY in his head and that was saying something, far outshone Persson's wrinkled hen with her big diamond ring and 50,000 dollar necklace.

Out of nowhere, the lady's gaze found his. Just for a moment. Then she lowered her gaze again and took a sip of her scotch with relish. He loved women who appreciated a good strong drink, even if it wasn't necessarily his thing. He liked it when they pretended to be coy, acted like he wasn't the best thing around. He was no longer as young and adventurous as he had once been and no, he no longer rolled through all the beds. He chose his business and private activities wisely. This woman was worth a lot of activity.

She crossed one leg over the other, the light from the chandeliers above her made the fabric of the tights look silky and translucent and, damn, was there an inch about this woman that wasn't magnificent and evoked fantasies? And she didn't even make an effort. She simply was. She was mood, a statement, and an future icon all rolled into one. Pretty much like he was too.

But what appealed to him the most - she was smoking a cigarette. That made him smirk. Smoking was forbidden here - a bad custom that had found its way into almost every public space. And yet she did it here because it was impossible for such a woman to go outside or into the smoking room like a commoner in bondage. She didn't give a shit about rules. As did he. The way her lips closed around the cigarette. The way her eyes were veiled behind her eyelashes by the smoke or by the pleasure of satisfying an oral fixation she simply had to have.

He lit a cigarette himself, suddenly overcome by the urge. He could imagine how the woman had gotten this goofball of a bartender to let her smoke here. He didn't have these charms. His reputation, his profession, his name had to suffice. And it did. As the waiter scurried up to bring him an ashtray with a jovial smile (and if he had wanted to put the cigarette out on the cushion, no one would have stopped him), he whispered his instructions in the boy's ear. It was just in time. The lady had stubbed out her fag, emptied her drink, put a bill on the table and was just about to get up when another drink was placed in front of her, this time unexpectedly.

A Passion fruit Martini in this case. Nothing that the Plaza had on the menu, but a fruity finish after the Scotch.

He didn't hear what the lady said to the bartender but he knew what the bartender would say and raised his own glass with a subdued smirk as the woman's eyes settled on him for the second time. She did not smile. But that wasn't necessarily his desire. Rather, she looked appraising and he resisted the urge to pull in the little bit of belly he'd gotten over the years. He was still quite nice to look at - only life was making itself known. He turned 40 in less than two months! More importantly ... after a thoughtful sip from the delicate glass of peach-colored liquid and a few seconds of deliberation, she slid off her chair.

She turned to the bartender again, presumably to make sure that the man who had sent her the martini would also take care of the rest of her bill. And Jesus, Mary and Joseph, the opening of the dress in the back went down to her bottom and you could see the hint of black silk panties. Somewhere in the room someone dropped a fork and he thought he heard Parrson's wife (the rich hen who you thought had shat out the etiquette book herself) say "Holy Shit". He would have liked to laugh out loud but that would have messed up his whole game. She came to his table with her clutch and martini and he appreciated that she knew how to walk in high heels.

"Is this seat taken?" she asked, placing a delicate hand with manicured and translucent lacquered but not particularly long fingernails on the back of the chair opposite him. Her Italian accent together with the melodic calm voice, deeper than he had thought and velvety, plucked a strand in him that felt warm and comforting. Like family and home, although his thoughts were not really homely. He wanted to groan at this perfect package and knew he didn't want her. He HAD to have her. And he doubted he'd have enough of her after one night, a week or a month.

"At your disposal," he said, not really meaning the chair she settled into.

"I've never had a Passion Fruit Martini. But it tastes very good. Tangy," she said, looking at him with a smirk that startled him less because of the innuendo than because the smirk seemed familiar and he couldn't for the life of him tell from where or what he remembered.

"I saw you and immediately thought you'd appreciate the taste," he replied coolly, glad that he'd had decades of practice at playing it cool.

"Well, It is better to be looked over than overlooked."

The woman lowered her eyes, using her eyelashes as a veil again. She had to know what that did to men. What it did to everyone. She was a minx who could play a bashful girl, and he found the prospect truly alluring.

"Sugar, I can't even imagine the idiot who would dare overlook you."

"Me neither," she hummed and her chuckle, which Tony immediately fell into because she was just such a delightful little thing, had something so familiar about it again. It unsettled him a little and yet was so very intriguing. Up close, he saw how young she was. But not too young that he could be accused of being a cradle robber. Antoinette would probably do it anyway, but he would be able to laugh about it and enjoy the way she grimaced at him. They had learned to work together by necessity over the last few years, to divide up the tasks in their turf and to antagonize each other less (business-wise).

"Anthony Dracon. You can call me Tony," he offered, and when she placed her hand in his, he blew a kiss on it - very much against his nature. He watched every movement on the woman's face, for this was a test. His name had radiance beyond New York and it was up to the nature and prior knowledge of the audience whether there were positive or negative reactions. He had assumed that his name would mean nothing to the woman - she was Italian (albeit with a very good command of English). But her smile, a little patronizing if not chiding, almost threatened to cause the lights in the chandelier on the ceiling to burst. Her words were truly bewildering.

"Oh, Tony. We were already on a first-name basis."

"Impossible! Someone like you I would have-"

He winced slightly as something brushed the hem of his pant leg, covering it with a widening but basically overwhelmed grin as the woman's foot traveled higher.

"Tony Dracon. It's okay. Don't bother. I looked very different then. You said at the time, if I remember correctly, that if I filled out a dress in ten years, people would be able to find something to do with me. I think ... I have something to fill out a dress now, what do you think?" To emphasize her words, she leaned forward a little. Not very ladylike, but who cared when you had such a good view.

"Definitely filling. Without question. Even smart men ... can be idiots." he croaked breathlessly, suddenly almost robbed of his voice as the foot moved higher. No High heel. Flesh. Warm. Wriggly. He sounded like an old man as his only brain cell that wasn't working on pumping blood into his cock kicked in. "You must have been a child back then."

"I was younger. But anything but innocent." Her smile turned apologetic. Over the table, they both looked like they were just talking. This woman was good at looking innocent while pressing her pantyhose-covered toes into his privates. Tony was discovering a new fetish and although he was anything but a prude and liked to scandalize others, he was glad for the tablecloth that hid what was going on under the table. Presumably.

"Do you find that juvenile?" she asked with that hint of a foxy smile that made his heart flutter and reminded him that he'd been supposed to make an appointment with his cardiologist for months because he was supposed to have issues. At that moment, it didn't feel like a problem, even though on some quiet nights, with nothing and no one to distract him, he would lie in bed and listen to his heart racing. Did he find it juvenile that this woman was playing footsie with him and was about to give him a footjob in the Plaza Hotel's champagne bar? Even if her foot would only be on his trouser leg and not in his crotch, NOTHING would feel juvenile about it.

He felt her trying to pull her foot back. Before she could do so, he grabbed her ankle. He felt the delicate, bird-like bones and the silky skin covering them. The silkiness could have come from the tights, but he thought the skin underneath was just as smooth. God, he wanted more. So much more. He hadn't felt this hunger in years and if his heart jumped out of his jacket because of it - it would be worth it.

"We should move this conversation to my suite," he said after clearing his throat intently and reluctantly letting go of her foot. He wanted to lick the mole on her cheek to see if it was just painted on.

Her smile seemed so warm and young again and he wanted it to be real. He wanted this woman to be his. And he was Tony Dracon, there was no question that she would be his whether by legal or illegal means. Although he would prefer legal means, because suddenly love wasn't a ridiculous illusion of Hollywood movie brainwashed idiots. It was something Tony could imagine. If this woman fell for him ... he could imagine loving her.

"God, I could be your father," he mused, not realizing he'd spoken his shameful thoughts before she chuckled and tilted her head in such a charming and not at all deterred way. He wanted to get his hands on that updo, get the clips or pins or whatever undone and let those curls slide through his fingers.

"I've... been accused of having a bit of a daddy fetish," she admitted, her gaze downcast, and Tony inwardly choked on the oxygen he was sucking in.

"Oh, baby, maybe I could help you with that," he said softly in reality, patting his thigh with a wolfish grin. And it was really just to cover up his own insecurity. To somehow regain control of the situation and put the woman even remotely on the same defensive as she did him. But it wasn't working at all and even though he felt that she, not he, was in control of everything here, of him, of every sentence and the outcome of the evening. He didn't even blame her for playing him like a fiddle. Because she was simply so delightful in the command she had over everything. She didn't just seem his equal, she was his equal. He should feel threatened. But instead he was bewitched. She rose with unreal grace and every fiber in Tony felt electrified and numb at the same time as this woman - heedless of surroundings, stares and general decorum - settled on his thigh. His hand automatically found her thigh where her lace dress replaced her smooth tights and her arms wrapped around his neck. She managed not to sit on his swollen cock, which pressed painfully against the fabric of his pants. But she had to feel it, he was hard. She was so close to him suddenly. She smelled good. Not intrusive. Her ass, her chest right in front of his face, but he looked up at her face. And not even at her cock-suck worthy lips but into her warm brown eyes as she spoke softly.

"I'm often not even sure I want help. It doesn't particularly bother me. And I think ... I'm managing quite well and I've turned out quite well. For a girl whose mother died young ... right after that her grandmother ... And then I had to leave my daddy in America to go to school in Italy. But you know what they say ... distance only makes the heart grow fonder."

Tony felt himself frown. That whole summary sounded ... familiar. But he still couldn't place it. And could he finally stop thinking, he had his bride-to-be on his lap right now!

"Would you like to be my daddy again?" she asked and heavens, he wanted to be everything to her. She wouldn't just be a mistress, she'd be the most spoiled felon's wife on the East Coast. Maybe ... maybe he could even keep her permanently happy. She deserved no less."

"Oh baby, that sounds great, I could be the best daddy for you," he murmured, stroking his hand over her waist. His fingers on her back, feeling her warm skin. This was how he wanted to wake up. Every morning.

With a sigh that was pure relief, she sank into his arms, resting her face against the crook of his neck. There really was something childlike about it, rather than something naughty. But if that was her kink, he would oblige.

"Thank you, Daddy. Thank you. I'm so relieved. I thought ... maybe you don't want me."

"It's okay, baby. How could I not want you. Daddy makes you happy."

"I don't doubt that. I just wasn't even sure if my letters got to you. School was very strict then, even though I was always busy bribing everyone."

"Huh?"

"I know, one letter a year wasn't much anyway. But there wasn't much to report either. I was diligent, I studied so hard to be the best person I could be in New York and with you. But ... yes, I'm really relieved now. Do you think... I can live in the Downtownhouse again? Sonny has also come back. I've got my own little crew, but we won't cause you any trouble. We'll prove ourselves, you'll see. You'll be proud of me."

"Downtownhouse?" he verbalized the first thought he could pull out of the tangled wool that was his overwhelmed brain.

The woman leaned back, looking at him with big Bambi eyes. Her smile ... that hair? The mole... Tony felt himself go pale. No wonder when all his blood was really downtown and he was MASSIVELY cockblocked by dawning realization.

"Where I used to live with Maria. She is well by the way. Greetings from her. If the family has sold that mansion by now, that's okay too. But ... there are good memories attached to the house. And I wouldn't be in anyone's way," said the woman, who was a girl he had once known. A few weeks long. Many years ago. He had kept the first letters. They had stroked his ego. But he hadn't received any more letters in the last few years. Or had he gotten them and thrown them away? Forgot that there was flesh of his flesh on the other side of the world. Flesh that would make his flesh explode soon.

"Sure. We still have it," he croaked and didn't even begin to enjoy the kisses he received in response. One left on his cheek. One on the right. And one directly on his mouth. Since his mouth was open as if he were a stupid mutton, he tasted her sweet saliva. Passion fruit martini. He would never be able to drink a passion fruit martini again without getting a boner and feeling infinitely awkward at the same time.

He barely noticed how the weight disappeared from his thigh and what his daughter - his REAL DAUGHTER! - said in farewell, he didn't hear either. To something, he said okay. He nodded to something else. He smiled when she did and his heart was still fluttering. Then that vision of the fleeting past and the shattered beautiful domestic future was gone and he was alone with his stiffy. His cock twitched promptly without realizing that there would be no playtime with their bride-to-be. There would be no bride-to-be. Because that was too much even for him. He licked his lips. Passion fruit martini. His petulant incest-interested dick would never go down. He would sit here all night until he could finally get up without making a fool of himself. But at least he had time to wrap his head around the new status quo.

Who is Daddy's naughty good girl? Who makes sure Daddy comes in his pants? Yes, it's you, yes, you. Good gurl! xDDD

Thanks for reading, Q.T.