NEPETHE.

It was late enough into the night—the apartment entirely quiet, except for the rhythmic pattern of knives being sharpened in the kitchen. Tessa gave herself a once-over in the bedroom mirror; glad she’d decided on six inch suede black— as was regular— tall, thin stilettos with straps that tied in interwoven stripes up to the sharp muscled shape of her calf. It drew the eye along a toned leg that was bare all the way up to the thigh through the slit of a gorgeous, perfectly emerald colored silk gown.

By contract, the personal chef she hired for the night should’ve headed home some hours ago. Time and time again however, he’d proven his professionalism by staying not until the last minute of what was agreed upon, but until it was all done and taken care of. The loft might’ve only hosted just two, but she’d proven to be quite the demanding client all by herself. She’d always been a well trained hostess, and a passionate one at that. Putting together something Gatsby-like from her lavish parties to the more intimate get-togethers; a level of taste inherited from her parents. There was a line crossed once you had so much money, it was as if there was nothing plausible left to spend it on. So wine and cheeseboards it was, live entertainment, senseless entertainment, new dresses, more canvas’, paint supplies, household decor and designer heels to debut on any given night. A diary of a born-millionaire bored, poking at any soft thing that might’ve surprised like a lottery ticket. Gambling—yet another recent passion, too; though she had always been responsible about it of course.

All her friends said the kitchen renovation was a waste: Italian marble counters, appliances made to order, collectible plates stored away never to be used. Despite her culture, her parents had never learned to cook and neither did she, but then again, she’d never had to. It’d always been a to-do on her massive list of things, and yet, often she found herself indisposed with other ( distractions ) plans that took up the majority of her time—regardless of the more lax scheduled nature of her commissions ( she’d been working on a massive mural for a very particularly difficult client as of late ) in comparison to Tom’s more packed one, she had been the farthest thing from quiescent. Her duties far surpassed the nature of just her occupation and flourished into every aspect of her life, especially the one they shared together: but, admittedly, Tessa always preferred to have things done her way and, though not always capable of such, Tom had become intelligent enough over the years to mostly know when to be smart and keep his mouth shut about it. 

( In reality: she wondered if it was because he was often overworked as he had become a far cry from the young man that she had knew when they were a unit of four instead, cramped into an apartment that would’ve often been left a mess if not for her or Jay’s interventions or, additionally, too dangerous to simply maneuver around due to his well thought out yet derivative pranks; back then, he’d always mouthed off at her to get under her skin, pushed to get his way. Now he’d mostly leave her to her devices when it came to various decisions and, sometimes, she wondered if she missed that rebellious side to him, however frustrating. It at least promised intense sex; other times she wondered if it’d simply been real and true growth but then he’d say or do something so ridiculously asinine, immediately leaving her to abandon the thought. )

Despite it being their anniversary, Tom had been indisposed in his personal office until further notice. Still, Tessa’s patience had run thin and she fully intended to do something about it. Time wasn’t meant to be wasted and she’d always been overly efficient in her use of it; everyone had often remarked about the almost inhuman skill she had when it came to organization, brain quickly able to deduce what most urgently needed to be done to provide the best results. One thing about Tessa: she’d always come prepared.  

“Are you slicing cucumbers or stabbing a man?” She asked as she stepped into the kitchen, poking light fun at the hired help but at his confused stare she remembered that he barely understood English, having been a top chef from his native Mexico. Then: “Lo siento. Puedes empezar a cocinar la comida. Me aseguraré de que estemos listos a tiempo.” as she walked over to pull two wine glasses from the upper cabinet, followed by a bottle of Sojourn Cabernet Sauvignon before heading in the direction of her fiancé’s office. “Gracias de nuevo.” 

When she’d arrived at the closed door, she didn’t bother to knock, instead quietly sliding inside incase he might’ve been on a call; she was considerate like that... sometimes. Of course he had been sitting at his desk, so engrossed in his work that he had yet to look up. She’d fix that momentarily. Sauntering over to him like a predator would its prey, Tessa placed the glasses and bottle softly upon his desk; and when his eyes finally met her own hazel hues, she rewarded him with a tantalizing grin as she worked to uncork the bottle with a practiced ease. 

They had always been antithetical, in sharp contrast or in conflict. In actuality, she was sometimes amazed that they had managed to make it this far. They had the tendency to either burn too hot or cold—and though Tessa’s structured nature often allowed her to sometimes be annoyed with his absence or, in many cases, lack of time management, she too had learned how to better win her battles. Pouring the wine into their cups, she maintained the répartie she tended to face Tom with when she was in a particular mood. Coy, friendly, semi-obedient— almost innocent. With a single bat of her lashes, she revealed the true deviance that lied mostly dormant beneath her coquettish facade. He’d seen it before. A wicked smirk painted her face as she positioned herself in front of him, sitting back along the antique mahogany wood desk she’d personally picked out, legs crossed in between his own. A few long seconds ticked passed with her eyes trained on his lips. 

“All work and no play makes you a very dull boy, Mr. Warren,” Her smile grew a bit brighter as she eyed him longer— a brief hint of her true self, and an equally curtailed allusion to how amusing she found her own game. All in good fun. 

Thomas Warren, for all of his preposterousness, had always been far more intelligent than he let on; the success of Velocity had caused him to soar to new heights—to push himself ( literally and figuratively ) and become a man, but he was only timely happy. It came in bouts, always off of some great news, or off of a grandiose night. It had become Tessa’s talent overtime to draw it out of him without a prompt: the right wine, the right words, the harsher ones in an attempt to better him, the right shade of lingerie. Tom loved his view, and she was entirely devoted to hers.