2020-07-29 Country Club Riposte

Country Club Riposte

Participants: Ian

Storyteller: Zebastian

Location: Los Angeles Country Club

Date and Time: July XX, 2020 09:45 pm.

Summary: The cream of the crop rise to the top of Los Angeles Country Club members list, making the perfect hunting ground for those with privileged taste. Ian sets his sights on bored socialite philanthropist who proves a challenging opponent - and blood is drawn, once they cross blades...

Midway through the evening at Los Angeles Country Club. There is a soft bustle of people through the corridors that lead to the various benefits of Membership. Earlier there was some kind of event in one of the lounges, and people exiting that mingle with the usual crowd of known families waiting to mingle with one another and 'unwind' - or network while pretending they're 'relaxing'.

From the entry foyer of the club, it's easy to tell who's doing what -- the benefits of membership come with a strict dress code. Members in sporting threads are undoubtedly heading from the locker rooms to the racquetball or driving range -- while anyone dressed in suit jackets or more formal wear are undoubtedly heading for dinner or some of the members lounges or patio, for a drink or daresay naughty cigar.

"Addison! Fancy seeing you tonight -- I thought you and Camilla were heading to Deer Valley?"

Idle chit-chat of family patriarchs as they cross paths -- their wives air kissing and engaging in conversation while their various college-aged children size each other up and decide if conversation is worth delaying having a drink. One young man steps aside, covertly checking his mobile phone as if he didn't know damned well they're taboo on Club grounds. He's silently watched by a tall, slender, blonde and much-too-young wife of someone or another - her manicured hand smoothing over her perfectly coiffed hair.

Meanwhile, a small group of young woman holding sports duffels bounce past, en route to the locker rooms. They bump into a tall blonde guy who's in the process of fixing the strap of his racquet bag -- flashing them a winning smile that falls short of being kind but manages to send the girls into a fit of giggling before they sprint off like gazelles.

Full of life and privilege.

And there among the herd is Ian, a predator custom crafted for this environment, his camouflage perfect as he sits at the bar, gently rolling the stem of a half-empty glass of white wine that he's never actually sipped, merely smelled. Anyone close enough and nosy enough might be able to detect the faint, sweet notes of the vintage, clearly a wine intended as an apertif. A quiet (and expensive) little joke to himself that he orders when he comes here to feed. He's dressed, as usual, in a fitted suit sans tie, though he undoubtedly has a locker here, filled with appropriate equipment, and a set of clubs available for his use should he request them.

He leans back as his eyes shift around the room, attention wandering over the young men on their way to the patio, then on along toward the much-too-young wife and her icy glare. He's looking for people that might peel away or become approachable, those that cluster in smaller groups. Surveying this herd for mistakes, weakness, illness, or infirmity. His gaze skips right past the help - but, then, so does everyone else's here. He's only interested in the absolute cream of the crop, scanning for members of known, prominent families, as befits his needs. He'd follow a lagging, tipsy Rockefeller on his way to the patio as easily as he'd separate a gold digger from her spouse with the promise of something that might feel, if only for just a moment, more real than a loveless marriage.

With the Country Club active like it is tonight? It's a veritable smorgasbord here -- the issue isn't so much on identifying who the creme de la creme are, so much as getting a keen sense of whose risen so far that the very notion of 'vulnerability' in the sanctitude of their Clubhouse would never cross their mind.

There are a few...

The golden haired ice-queen in Chanel is Tiffanie Stucker, the third wife of Colby Stucker Sr., an industry financier whose fortune came from orange groves and water management across California. Old Colby is always terribly busy, and the result is Tiffanie must be terribly bored -- if her husband is here tonight, he's excused himself to the cigar lounge, leaving Tiffanie on her lonesome. The attention she gave to that fellow discreetly checking his phone breaks, and she turns to look out a the patio and grounds beyond - wistful bordering on sulky. The stem of her wine glass twisted, in obvious consideration of getting up and going...

Meanwhile, Hampton Kealey-Moore has finally slipped his phone away - giving an accusatory glance around as if to challenge whoever has dared judge. The kid is obsessed with his financial portfolio, and it's an open secret that he's got a little betting problem -- only is it a problem, with a trust fund as big as Hampton's? The way he's been sipping at sparkling water all evening, it's likely he's just taking time before heading to the locker room and blowing of steam on a racquetball. He has the air of someone who's lost something today - but plans to end the evening with a win.

Crossing the bar en route to goodness knows where is Wheaton Williams, the college aged progeny of Addison Wheaton, who was overheard in the foyer earlier. Free spirit, he's no doubt pissed he's not partying in Deer Valley tonight -- and from the look on his face? The darting of his eyes? The kid's on his own war-path to find someone, /anyone/, to liven up the mood in any way possible. Failing to see anyone he knows -- or /likes/ -- Wheaton stops at the bar, orders himself a scotch. That'll help.

So many options... And do any of these good people come and bother Ian? Of course not -- they're not instigators, they're the type to whom action is instigated towards. Holding court in their own little mortal minds, as the world revolves around them.

Decisions decisions. Ian's expression is outwardly bored, but inwardly he's measuring and weighing, debating and deciding. Tiffanie, bored and after something - but Ian is not handsome. He is, at /best/ charming if a little plain. Still he considers her for a moment, measuring just how bored she must be to think about leaving. And weighing that against the length of time her husband will remain out there smoking. Hours, potentially.

Hampton is considered as well, Ian's fingers twitching briefly in consideration. He'd enjoy the physicality of it. And the yearning in the young man's eye has its own draw. Something hidden inside of Ian - the cold and cruel thing that curls around his undead heart - would enjoy meting out yet another loss. To ruin the man's day further.

And of course there's Wheaton. Some drinks, a conversation - an invitation to a private room. He'd have his hands on the man's thigh and his fangs in his neck within the hour. Or, at least, that's Ian's assumption.

In the end, he stretches up to his feet, leaving Wheaton behind with a brief, longing glance, and makes his way through the club around to Tiffanie Stucker. He shifts and takes a seat at her table, leaning back with a faint smile. "Sorry to intrude." he says quietly, "But I cannot stand to see a beautiful woman alone on an evening as nice as this. Do you mind if I sit for a moment? I am /exhausted/ of the droning going on out on the patio." Tiffanie is the most likely to leave soon. If he strikes out here, he can likely still make a move toward at least one of Hampton or Wheaton.

With the astute assessment of the options available, it's relatively easy to move in.

Tiffanie's attention turns away from wistful observation past the patio windows, once Ian approaches her and speaks -- there is something of a secret smile that crosses her lips, although it never quite breaks into something full-on warm. More considerate, as she looks Ian over -- no doubt doing some internal social calculations: what's the risk of being seen speaking to a man like Ian, while her husband is off ... doing whatever it is he does without her.

Colby Stucker Sr. isn't the only one allowed to have fun, right Tiff?

Meanwhile in the background: the bar goes on as it was before, uninterrupted: Wheaton gets his scotch, and Hampton tries to look like he's not seething over his sparkling water. So it goes. But by Ian? Tiffanie gestures to the chair across from her.

"By all means," Tiffanie says after a moment - though her tone and posture still maintains an element of chill. The stem of her wine glass is twisted as she considers Ian. "Fortune favours the bold." A slight flex of her plumped lips - whatever work she's had done? Looks good, actually. "What hope is there for anyone, if all that's ever going to happen is exhaustion, hmm?" Before she can lament further, a pencil-thin eyebrow raises a fraction. "Have we been introduced?"

He'll shift into the gestured-at chair with a smoothly practiced movement, the chair tilted out to allow him to bend himself down into it. He settles as she speaks, his own smile growing - face animating there in the soft light of the club. A smile that anyone who didn't truly know him might take as genuine. "None at all." is his reply to the question of hope. "Everyone here, they're stuck in the eternal struggle to snatch life from the jaws of ennui."

His head tilts at the question then shakes gently, "We have not. But I know who you are, Ms. Stucker." the r conveniently dropped for the time being, even if her ring is clearly visible on her finger. "Every young man here does." His chin lifts and he says, "I'm Ian Stanford. Of the Hancock Park Stanfords." a prominent family of course, known to have gotten rich on the railroad business over a century ago and lapsed into the lazy circles inhabited by Old Money. His hand extends as he says it, palm half-tilted up to give her the choice. A handshake, or the more fanciful drape of her palm atop hers.

Tiffanie remains poised, polished -- her posture and air that of someone who is used to being looked at and admired, although the way her interest piques, just a /tad/, when Ian speaks to her? Maybe she considers herself an intellectual, or whatever passes for an intellectual in California. Didn't she go to Vassar? Yet here she is; fashioning herself as a socialite philanthropist who's bored as hell in Los Angeles Country Club, conversing with Ian.

"Jaws of ennui, are they? You wouldn't know, from the way they go on and on..." Tiff fades, hiding a smirk behind her wine glass as she takes a sip - watching Ian all the while, as he flatters her from across the table. 'Ms. Stucker' gains him a rather dry twitch of amusement, but she says nothing more of if. Merely puts her wine glass back down and studies him cooly. "Ian Stanford - of course."

Her hand is draped over his briefly -- weighted down by the several karats on her fingers, no doubt.

"What a pleasure. I'm afraid if you're looking to talk shop with Colby, he's retired with the boys to have a smoke. Awful habit, I loathe it - but you know, can't teach an old dog..." Tiffanie fades, lips compressed in a tight almost-smile, before she lifts an eyebrow - a hand lifted to subtly fan at her face before adjusting hair that needs to adjustment. Must be hot or something. "Tell me, Ian; what's keeping you busy in Hancock Park these days?"

He leans forward at the drape, not so gauche as to kiss her hand in public, but still giving the impression of it - the downward tilt of his head, the subtle lift of her hand and the light squeeze of his thumb all coming together to suggest the action before he lets her hand go. "People often take the easy road - The gates of hell are open night and day; Smooth the descent, and easy is the way: But to return, and view the cheerful skies, In this the task and mighty labor lies." Virgil, like her original quote, dropped there with a small tilt of his head like he's testing that intellectual reputation. In most settings that sort of thing would make him the asshole. It might still do that here and now - Ian /is/ kind of an asshole.

Her hand released, he stays poised just that touch closer - body language entirely focused on her. Admiring as she expects. Bolder than, perhaps, she's used to. She did invite it after all.

His lips twitch when she mention Colby's name, and Ian's voice drops just a touch - "I do not care one whit about /Colby/." pitched for her and her alone, allowing a low rumble into his voice alongside the faint show of teeth. That momentary flash is gone in an instant, Ian's eyes drifting around the room briefly. "Mm. You know, this and that. I golf, I play raquetball. I swim and I read." he considers and adds, "I just try to stay.. active. You know?" an eyebrow arching a bit as he looks to her.

There's something almost - but not quite - amused from Tiffanie, as Ian alludes to the possibility of kissing her hand. Many people might miss out on the subtitles of it, though; that not-quite amusement has a hint of icy reserve, perhaps even meanness about it - like she was sizing Ian up, checking for weaknesses in character --- then the unexpected happens: surprise.

Genuine surprise from Tiff, as Ian quotes Virgil at her like that - so smooth and easy, and sure he might be testing her ... but he's also exposed himself as someone who would even /know/ to -try- to test her like that, and for Tiffanie?

It's like finding an oasis in a desert.

Without much of a change to that ice-queen demeanour, there is the sense from her hand of warmth - a flush to her skin, even if botox has reduced any unpleasant wrinkling or sweating or micro-expressions that might undermine her status. Ian is talking to her, and surely she must be listening -- but it's only when he talks about being active that Tiffanie draws herself out of whatever internal imagining she had, and rejoins the conversation: "Active, of course - we'd just rot away if we didn't at least /try/ to engage. I took up fencing and pilates, which some people-" Unsaid: Colby. "-think is a joke, but try even finding a soul who'll /walk/ in this town? No, I've never preferred just sitting around, doing nothing." For the first time, Tiffanie smiles at Ian. "I never tire of listening to those who've eschewed the easy road."

The surprise makes him smile - Ian catching himself to shift it from a predator's grin to one of surprised delight of his own. She got it, and what's more, she /appreciated/ it. He straightens slightly, drawing to his full height as he listens and watches.

"A fellow fencer?" he says, a bit more surprise showing, "I think I would genuinely enjoy seeing your form. Have you been at it long?" And here's a subject where Ian's passion is obvious. His procilivites tend toward the martial, and while he is not specifically a fencer, he's quite familiar with the sport. "I imagine you are quite capable on the piste." His grin reappears, less vicious than before but clearly even more interested. "I assume you've used the facilities here, on the second floor?" he asks. "World class. Do you favor the epee, foil, or saber? Mm- don't tell me.." a beat as he lets his eyes drop - openly admiring her form now. "Foil." he declares as his guess - the lightest and most agile of the blades. It's clearly intended as a compliment completely unrelated to the sport, his ice-chip blue eyes drifting lazily back up to meet hers.

Tiffanie's posture has changed - then languidness remains, but her body has tilted just a little closer to Ian, hand lifted again to swoop her hair back, expose a shoulder as she leans in as if to share a secret, and not just show off her litheness and tone. Has she been at it long? That smile widens - haughty and amused as he asks her -- now she's not the type to expose her age, even if she's probably not even hit thirty -- but she can't help but quip, "I closed the season at Vissar with five bout victories -- of course foil."

Then she's sitting up straighter, chin lifted and attention sharply focused on Ian, like of /course/ she knows about the fencing facilities. "I swear, they're the only thing worth coming here for -- well, except for the occasional black swan conversation -- /Stanford/-" Her tone has become playful suddenly, but that iciness has never quite melted away even as she teases, "How /is/ it we've never crossed paths before?"

Sizing him up again, Tiff's lips purse with consideration. "Sabre, right? You've got a certain cut about you --- oh, honestly, it's almost impossible to find a match here. Everyone's so..." Her lips twist, and there's a repressed puff of sigh before she adds, "Afraid of failure." A beat, then her eyes turn -- looking towards the hallways, as if considering how far the two of them may be from the second floor facilities - or how long she could be gone, before anyone notices. Looking back at Ian, she considers him in silence - though it's hard to tell whatever she might be considering now.

His grin widens as she reveals her prowess, chin lifting some at the idea of the challenge. "Of course foil." he repeats with an easy chuckle. He's closer now, though he maintains propriety, not so close that people will /talk/. Casual conversations happen all the time after all.

He shakes his head a touch and says, "I'm not certain." he admits, "But I am /very/ glad that we finally have." His attention shifts briefly to the wineglass then back to her. "Most of the people here are content to rest on their laurels." he agrees quietly. "Only the rare few have the.. gumption.." the word chosen after a brief moment of thought - an amused smile given at the slightly anachronistic term, "to truly test themselves." He inclines his head a bit and says, "And yes, sabre of course. I prefer the bulk and heft of it. The arm work-out is phenomenal too. Though it can be more.. mm.. dangerous than foil at times. The blade is less flexible, more likely to draw blood when scoring a point."

He watches her debate and deliberate, his eyes moving to the patio then back to Tiffanie, "They'll be busy for /at least/ another hour. He only just left." the words a soft intimation. "He'll never even know you were gone." He stretches then, glancing around the room and then down toward her. "I'll go prepare the third room on the left.." The one without observation windows, usually used for solo practice or private lessons. Tone full of assumption as he takes a step away, giving her time to react before he simply walks off, leaving her there to make her exit, conveniently disconnected from his own.

Tiffanie has abandoned her wine glass. It may as not exist on this plane of existence, for all she focuses on it - or the rest of the room for that matter. What does the third wife of Colby Stucker Sr. care about in this world? Certainly not being a third wife --- but Virgil and fencing? The facade of ice-queen may persist in the reserved way she watches Ian during his ongoing conversation...

...but it doesn't take heightened senses to get the clear impression that something has ignited inside, by the way Ian has lead this conversation. The smile, as sharp as it is, has nearly even touched her eyes, when he mentions the danger of sabre ... and the unlikeliness of being found out, if they abscond to the fencing studios.

"Oh, and I suppose that means you've the gal, nerve, gumption and audacity?"

Tiff has stood up, and without a word she turns away from Ian -- giving him an opportunity to admire the privilege and pilates toned masterwork of her lithe form, slinking away from the abandoned table, off to the hallway beyond the bar... and to the left.

Where the elevators go up to the second floor, and the fencing studio.

Should he arrive there, after time has passed? The Chanel dress has been exchanged for some very well tailored fencing gear, the front collar left loose and exposing the tops of her chest, athletic line of her shoulders and neck -- her hair pulled into a tight ponytail, the fencing mask resting by her foot, as she checks the balance of her fencing foil and hefts it in her hand.

Creme of the crop, yes. ...but maybe not such easy pickings, depending on how Ian approaches.

He'd expected something a bit easier, certainly - a woman there for a dalliance. The Chanel dress exchanged, but not for pads and protection. The door is nudged open, allowing Ian to step inside and look over at her, down then up. He'd made his way directly there, in case this had happened, a duffel bag from his locker dropped off. Then he'd left - ostensibly to get the foil he currently holds in his hand, granting her the advantage.

Still dressed in the suit, he'll make his way over to the bag, using the point of the foil to unzip it before he kneels beside it, shrugging off his suit jacket. Then baring his back to her. He'll rise and step out of his shoes, dressing down shamelessly to his slacks before glancing over his shoulder at her. He looks back to the bag with a shrug, drawing his own tailored suit out and sliding it on - the slacks crinkling a bit from it as he pulls on his armor and withdraws his mask. He lifts the mask up beneath one arm and hefts the foil as he turns to look over at her, crossing the room in confident strides as he moves to take his position on the piste, foil raised in the appropriate salute.

"What are we competing for?" he asks, eyebrow lifting, tone tauntingly coy.

Tiffanie is a crafty one -- she's obviously competitive as hell, judging by the way she undermined that 'I'll prepare the room' offer. Damn. For all the fervour that got her dressed in lightning speed, she's forgotten to take out her diamond earrings -- they glint in the light of the fencing studio, her head tilted as she watches Ian get un- and redressed with zero shame in her expression.

This is not boring. Tiffanie's obviously intent on capturing the experience to the full - and not leaving any room for Ian to get comfortable.

...still, there's a little flush to her cheeks. White wine and adrenaline. When he asks her what they're competing for? Tiffanie laughs, does not skip a beat:

"Honour."

Then a smile breaks across her face, as she picks up her mask and turns, steps further away - preparing herself into position. Mask is slid on, though in the heat of the moment she's rather forgotten to fully button up the top of her collar. No matter - it's a friendly, right? Sure.

The mask is slid over her head, and Tiff raises her foil --- en guard, and for a moment it seems like she's waiting for Ian to be the one to start them off, but no; she doesn't even give him the satisfaction. Tiffanie's voice calls out through the mask; "Allez!"

And they're off...

He can't help it. The answer makes him smile in a way that Ian likely hasn't smiled in half a century. He /likes/ her. But that buys her no mercy, his mask adjusted and placed. He expects the wait. He doesn't expect the attack. Were his heart still beating, it would be racing with far more than adrenaline right then.

She comes in, Ian unready - catching her blade just barely catching hers - and then dancing against it, pressing her back then allowing her to press him, the maneuvers coming to a stalemate, each stabbing out at the same moment, the tips catching in a near perfect mirror of each other's point, causing Ian to bark out a sudden laugh.

They reset, salute, and this time Ian is ready for her sudden attack - catching it and whipping around, wrist flickering with an almost dismissive slap to throw her foil wide so that he can step in and thrust the point into her belly. He follows it, stepping in close, the blade bending and sliding off of her as he does. Close enough that she can see him through the mesh of their masks, feigning excitement and heated breaths. In reality, already tasting her on his tongue.

The next round he's sloppier - charging in bullishly, allowing her to assume a moment of confidence. Allowing her to quite easily repeat the maneuver he'd just used. Except he doesn't stop, his sword dropping as he reaches down, grabbing one of he puffed pads of her suit to push her back, off the piste and against the wall. His other hand coming up to drag his mask off. And then hers. And whether she seems enticed, angered, or terrified - Ian presses the surprise to try and gain the upper hand in that moment of struggle, and goes for the bite to her neck.

Here's the thing: Tiffanie was not lying. She is both a trophy wife and a terrific fencer -- Vasser must have been sad to see her go, but the alumni contributions surely keep their students on the fencing team in good kit.

There is a piercing directness about the way she approaches with the foil -- her breath running ragged only after that amazing second attack from Ian; it only ignites Tiffanie's fire further: that third manoeuvre of hers, it's accompanied by a little twist o' the wrist, like no doubt if this was some European court duel long ago, she'd be spiralling a moulinet right into the core of Ian's body.

...but this is Los Angeles, babes; the year is 2020 and they're both wonderfully protected by padding and what not.

Tiffanie laughs - and damn, it's a little mean. Girl loves to win, and this point brings her closer to a future victory, right? Only Ian has dropped his sword and come at her -- and their masks are being thrown aside before she has time to react, exposing the flush to her cheeks, the blaze behind bright eyes. Surly she assumes Ian has come at her like this to start getting handsy and her response? Well, she is furious -- her game has been thrown off!

Ian does have some gal, nerve, gumption and audacity. She was right.

But does he have her neck? Not exactly - he's got a mouthful of reinforced collar from her fencing uniform, fragrance by Chanel No 5 and the salty-sweet taste of her sweat. Tiffanie lets out a little cry, moving to shove Ian, grab a hold of his padded jacket and -shake-, and then... Well, it's not /boring/, is it Tiff? There's an exasperated cry - anger and excitement, not fear - and she tries to look him in the eye... Oh. Is she challenging him to --- back off, or kiss her /properly/, Jesus! Do it -right- Ian. The sloppiness is more offensive than the recklessness to Tiffanie, no doubt.

Ian had expected her to scream and thrash, making the same mistake that many men had when it comes to Tiffanie. He'd underestimated her. He'd thought her meeker than she is, and dismissed her as a thing to be grabbed and taken. The difference, with Ian, is that he's proven himself willing to try. What's more, willing to fail. The grip changes, the grapple softening as his head comes up.

His eyes meet hers and a smirk forms as he leans on - one hand lifting to her head, cupping her cheek - all of this, of course, assuming she lets him. Giving her more what she expects now, a kiss both firm and needy, his body pressing in to keep Tiffanie neatly pinned to the wall. Relying on the padding to keep from hurting her too badly.

And yet, the padding is an issue - a suit of armor that has already foiled him once (no pun intended). And so his other hand is working down along her tall, shapely form, velcro straps jerked open with quick, confident little twists as he kisses her like he means it. Playing, once more, the amorous suitor, rather than rush too fast and risk alerting his prey.

Not easy pickings, no. Tiffanie is likely a formidable force in social circles -- but who knows how painfully bored she gets, being arm candy to a pillar of industry and water-wars in the drought struck California. How many opportunities does she have to really let loose and straight up attack an enemy with a foil? Few. Ian may not be the most gorgeous man in all of L.A., but he certainly has a fighting spirit, and well... that counts, most certainly.

Besides; it's not like anyone can see them in the cloistered fencing studio - and it'll be a while yet until Tiffanie's absence will be noticed by anyone else in the County Club - she works so hard keeping up appearances, why not indulge in a little flirtatious fighting and have a tiny little insignificant surely harmless fun with Ian Stanford of the Hancock Park Stanfords, right?

Right. Harmless fun.

Velcro rips open, exposing Tiff's neck and athletic shoulders -- foil dropped to the wooden floors with a clatter as her hands reach up to cup Ian's head, fingers running through his hair as they kiss. Resistance melting away, slowly but surely - leaving the ice queen open for heated and vulnerable exposure.

The kiss remains heated and hungry, even as her velcro is undone and her neck is exposed. He breaks it to take an unnecessary breath, his skin likely a bit cool to the touch here and now, this close. Even after their exertion. His nose brushes hers as his eyes come open to stare down at her. "You may be the most beautiful person in Los Angeles." he says quietly. And part of him feels it, at least in that moment. When only his extreme willpower keeps him from slavering openly for the blood in her veins.

His lips drift - a kiss planted on her cheek, then her jaw, working their way down to just beneath her ear. He eyes close as he does, body shifting as her fingers work through his hair. he continues to undo straps, velcro worked with both hands now. It will help sell what 'happened' to her after she recovers.

And then, as he peels the padding from her body, his fangs sink into her flesh, digging in with the mind-warping effects of the Kiss. She's still pressed to the wall by the weight of his body, kept aloft by a shoulder pressed in against hers. His lips work carefully against those twin holes to make sure that he doesn't waste a precious drop. A vintage as perfectly crafted as Tiffanie Stucker is to be savored, not guzzled.

Now flattery like that? It might work on some women, but for Tiffanie all it gleans is a laugh -- well, a scoff really - though, it doesn't crush her interest entirely. She just knows she's beautiful, and there's something so charmingly naive in being told, right? It earns Ian a little nip against his lips, as if she were the one who's most used to being in charge and taking control of little affaires like these.

Still, as they get handsy and kiss in the moody lights of the spotlit fencing studio, Tiffanie murmurs; "You're so cold..." Surely not about Ian's approach, so much as his kiss itself - something almost sympathetic about that, like Tiff's next assault of action would be to warm the poor guy up a little.

Ah, mortals. So complicated -- all those feelings, conflicted and constant.

Braced agains the wall, who knows what goes through Tiffanie's mind when Ian finds her exposed neck and digs in with a Kiss. She tastes? Like polished perfection -- heat and adrenaline, the faint floral vapour of alcohol and a clean diet of Los Angele's most privileged trophy wives. His mouth fills with her blood easily, speedily - rich and warm, coppery and free. Tempting, flowing fast and... Ah, it could be drunk forever, no? Or at least a little while longer...

...but then Ian would have a little problem on his hands, wouldn't he. The fencing studios are unobserved, sure - but the cleanup of taking a drink too far might be a rather difficult situation. Still, just another moment, another taste, that can't hurt, right? Not Ian, at least,

Tiffanie however, is not an infinite vintage. Careful now.

He'll catch himself as he sinks into that draught, realizing what he's done. He leans back from the nearly unconscious woman, muttering a quiet 'shit' to himself. Ian was certainly overawed by her for a period of time.

He straightens some and sets her down, undressing her as she lapses in and out of consciousness, so thoroughly drained as she is. Posing her there on the mat prettily as if freshly ravished. Clothes pushed away in the necessary places, hair mussed, even small bruises placed here and there. The hip. The shoulder, like things had, briefly, gotten out of hand - all to sell the moment.

And the last piece, to keep her from being suspicious. To prevent her from ending up in the hospital. A kiss placed softly against her lips before he leans back and pricks his thumb on a fang, pressing it to her lips and pressing on it to flood her mouth with vitae. Her body will know what to do with it in a few moments, and the curse it carries with it will soften her toward him, smoothing suspicions and, potentially, making their next encounter all the easier.