She was beautiful, and she thought about how that was true from time to time. She usually didn’t feel beautiful, but rather she felt the power that comes along with it. But she sat as if she thought she was beautiful, long legs crossed, her round thighs magnificent beneath the sheen of her deep purple velvet dress, the side slit showing just enough of her dark skin. She blinked slowly as she talked with the nervous man next to her, feeling each stroke of her long eyelashes against her cheek.
He was trying not to look at her chest. The cut of her dress was generous–a deep teasing plunge of cleavage and a glance of occasional lace from something just out of sight. He only stole glances when she turned to sip the champagne he nervously presented to her when he made his introduction. He saw her the moment he walked into the party, and, quite unlike himself, decidedly placed himself close enough to her to listen as she spoke of her travels and condo and saw her roll her eyes discreetly when anyone else thought they ought to contribute something. She was the most magnificent woman he had ever seen, and he thought then and there that he would do whatever it took to have her.