"“Don’t you think you’ll be cold... without a coat?”[/i] she asked with a kittenish innocence that made him smirk.

"Hm-mm," he protested. "I think--" he began, planning on elaborating upon how hot it might get, how they might be taking off--rather than putting on--clothing but was distracted by the fingers racking through his hair. His breath caught. His brain blanked.

Moloch, that felt good. He felt his pulse quicken and his grip on her instinctively tightened, pressing her into him. And that look . . . he swallowed, glad he could not--didn't have to think. He ran his fingers lightly across her cheekbone and just over her ear before running his own hands through her soft strands, feeling them slip between his fingers.

“Where do you want to go... to put the non-coat... on you?”

Once more, Adon was delighted to find a woman after his own heart -- no verbal responses necessary. He smiled, trying to breathe, as he allowed himself to be tugged to the ground. He knelt above her, arms caging her against the wall as he leaned in to claim another kiss.

And that's when the thinking began. It wasn't bidden. But the hair -- that long, dark hair looked like Thea's. And. . . and he would have rathered. . . not that it was really possible. . .

No, it was impossible. Thea was in Israel and there she stayed. And he was now in a coat closet. With a hot, hot somebody, and he'd be damned if he just  . . . He leaned in, cupping her chin in his hand as he went in for a deep kiss. He closed his eyes and inhaled, smelling the furs, the dark of this room, this woman who, yes, smelled incredible.

He thought of how Thea smelled: spices and bergamot.

His lips, just a breath away from her own, pressed together in a frown as he turned his head quickly away. "Harah!" he hissed. This couldn't be happening. A conscience was the end of all fun; he thought he'd drowned it by now. And what was more, there was no real reason to have a conscience. Thea was in Jerusalem, and there she'd stay, but he couldn't keep her out of his head and from, somehow, invading this cloak room.

"I'm sorry," he grimaced, anticipating a steely reception from a woman scorned. "I. . . can't. This isn't . . . I can't want this," he said, stumbling through the words as he tried to disentangle himself from the situation. "I . . . I'm sorry." The words sounded as foreign as they tasted on his tongue. Such a bad night for remorse. He'd much rather have the remorse in the morning; he might have then had at least a little fun. "I. . ." he began again, not sure what he would say -- what she would want him to say.

He pulled away, rolling back onto his heels in a crouching position before, finally, swallowing. "Here," he said with a slightly steadier voice. "Let me get your cloak; which is it?"

Curled down on the floor like a teenager, like a fifteen-year-old version of herself in a broom closet, Charlotte continued to press kisses to the dark stranger. Her fingers roamed his hair, her ears concentrated on his breath, as it won the war for her attention over the muffled sound of music and laughter on the other side of the door.

She fell gracefully, intoxicated toward him as he held her face, but it was hard not to notice the sudden stiffness creeping in, the slower pace, the pausing. Her lips against his, she felt his mouth morph into that all-too-familiar expression of a man acting like a child. Charlotte had learned it ages ago, had learned to pick it out with her mouth and her touch when her eyes were closed. Too many fleeting relationships, playful rendezvous, affairs with men who were wrapped up in other things: busy lifestyles, ex-families, midlife crises. Or men who could get what they wanted from the witchy witch sitting under the roof of coats scented with floral perfumes and Spanish cigars.

And then the tension mounted, quickened pace, confronted her. Charlotte pulled away at the same time, knitting her brows, letting her arms drop. One palm curled where her wand might have been. Her nails pressed into the life lines. Her lips pouted, becoming dry and austere.

He was refusing her.

He was beautiful, drunk, uninhibited. He’d followed her into the closet and sinked down onto the floor! What could possibly be stopping him?

Charlotte knew one thing: he wasn’t going to blame her.

A breathy laugh like a dragon’s temper left her small nose, and she tilted her head a fraction, studying him, judging him. “What’s the matter?” She asked, sounding as peeved, as humored as she was soft and worried. Or more so, rather. She was about to be ditched in a cloak room. A man was about to walk out on Charlotte St. James.

“You aren’t married, are you?” She asked as he moved to his feet. Her eyes lifted, her head fell back and her hair swam menacingly over her shoulders, down her back as she looked up at him, trying to find lies in his face. It was hard. The room was dim and small, the coats were everywhere, and Charlotte had had a bit too much to drink. Plus, he had the upper-hand, being the one looking down and casting a shadow. “She can’t be very interesting, if you’ve ended up here with me...”

While not a hunter of husbands already accounted for, Charlotte had had more than one evening in the company of a taken man. She didn’t ask questions, and they didn’t divulge. She had fun, lived fast, woke up the next morning (or afternoon) and forgot the face of the gentleman who had creased and warmed the sheets beside her with an outline. They were usually gone by that time.

The ones who had been worth it had been in more tumultuous relationships to begin with. Like her, they were usually young with too much time and money at their disposal. They were in the public eye, they never denied their pleasures, they didn’t blush. They were men she bickered with on balconies and then made up with in showers, and then threw out, followed by hexes or vases or entire tailored suits. They were easily bored and frequently flighty. They were quidditch players and rockstars and old money. Eternal bachelors, as entitled as she.

They were not this man. However suave and bold he was, he was not like them. They didn’t offer to find her coat. They left a galleon in it and swept out into the night.

“No,” she said, pressing her palm into the wall now, crawling up in the dark swath of checked cloaks. “No, I’ve got it.” Her voice was tinged with something sour and she turned away from him. She groped for her wand, pulled it out, let it flash just a bit, angled from the front, peaking out from her silhouette, back to him. She gave a small, cold laugh. “You may want to work on your technique,” she offered. And then, looking over her shoulder, eyes trying to sting him, she added, “That was a very unimpressive finish.” Her gaze trailed down, lingering for a moment, and then turned back to the coats. The subtle suggestion of dysfunction was meant to wound.

“What's the matter?"

It was the question Adon hadn't known he was craving to hear; he'd want to talk to someone about Thea. About his job. About his relationship with his brother, now that they weren't talking. About moving to England and feeling, for the first time, that he didn't matter. But the way this question was asked -- with a sneer and a taunt in it, was all wrong. He could all but hear the schoolyard boys taunting him from childhood days as the trounced him: "What's the matter, baby? Cry baby, cry!" He'd learned very quickly how to turn the tide; how to make the bullies run crying; nothing unbridled aggression and magic couldn't help with. But he suspected that would not further any aims tonight. No, he wanted to avoid that if possible. It could not end well, but neither did it need to end poorly.

She was in for the kill, however; Adon felt her questions circling him, moving in closer, like a swarm of vultures, ready to pick him apart as soon as he gave up the ghost. "You aren’t married, are you?” Thea . . . not interesting? Adon felt a morbid amusement in this assessment. She couldn't fathom him -- the rejector -- ever being rejected. It could only be a woman's failure to please him -- the thought was both flattering and angering at the same time. Would that it were so! And would also that women might lay more weight in their value beyond their ability to please. Women who pleased -- simpering, caterwauling, preening, clinging -- were uninteresting. Thea -- she'd been none of that. She'd been confident, living for herself. In the end, though, even that had not been enough. You reached a point -- at some point, you had to live for others. She'd not been willing to. Simple as that.

Was he married?

"No," he said, a husky hoarseness in his voice which caused him to clear his throat. No, but he wanted to be. He ought to have been. If she'd kept the ring on her finger. It had only been on there for six hours, but that had been enough for him to realise what marital bliss might mean. And it had ruined everything.

"I don't think I can do things that don't mean anything anymore," he confessed, longing in his voice, feeling the emptiness and shaking his head. He watched, helplessly as she struggled to her feet and he rose up with remarkable agility -- considering his drink. Always landed on his feet, Adon Eleor did. And now would be no different. He stood stiffly as she reached for her wand, finger running along its edge as she drew subtle attention to it. Whether an attempt to warn him or to gather strength for herself, Adon was not certain, but he made no moves; this was a cloak room, not a day at his job.

“You may want to work on your technique,” she began, deflecting, throwing out insults -- throwing him out to prevent feeling discarded herself. He knew the move. He understood it, even. On their last meeting, he'd told Thea he didn't love her; that her refusal had saved him. He thanked her. “That was a very unimpressive finish,” the stranger said, and Adon gave a light, bitter laugh of assent.

Yes, it was. And disappointing -- at least to him. He'd wanted this. Or had wanted to want it. She was right; he'd give her this last dignity and accept the charge. What was more, he'd raise it: "It wasn't much of a proper start, either," he said crisply. "I'm sorry for that." In another moment in his life, the implication -- that he could not pick up girls properly from bars for casual sex -- might have impacted his ego; there was a time when Adon associated his identity with such abilities. But now, it was not how he got girls, but how he treated them that mattered. And this -- this would benefit neither of them, in the long run.

Curse it all to hell.

Well. Where to from here? Adon looked back at the entry of the cloak room. He wanted to make sure she was alright -- but he was the last person who could ask. "What's the matter?" the echo repeated in his head. No, he could not ask that tactfully.

But the cousin . . . Yes. She could have a good man-hating/Adon-hating/foreigners-who-draw-me-into-dark-places rant with her. It didn't matter; and Adon didn't care about things that didn't matter. He could probably turn this into a good drinking story with Gil or Archer later. Compile a list of "Girls-I-screwed-over-but-wouldn't-screw-in-a-broomcloset" stories.

"Do you think your cousin's still here?" he asked.

Charlotte frowned. While this was, indeed, the definition of meaningless hookup, she could feel the sting behind her navel-- and not the sort of tug that accompanied portkeys-- that inner wounding that mens’ words inspired, even when women vowed to keep their chins high. “I could mean something,” she murmured, face down, eyes turned upward toward him in a menacing way to disguise the fact that she was offended, even embarrassed. She hadn’t been walked out on in years. Not like this.

But she couldn’t help but role her eyes when he started on the moral kick. A proper start. “Do you often go looking for proper starts in bars? Buy them a few drinks?” She raised a brow. The humiliation was dissolving, was being replaced by something else.

Blinking, she couldn’t believe he was acting as if it were his obligation to make sure she got home safe. As if finding Charlotte’s chaperone, her cousin Quincy, were something he actually cared to do. First it was meaningless and now it was chivalry.

With a sort of hmph, Charlotte moved slightly to her left, reached toward the unmistakable material of her own coat, and pulled out a card-- not a business card, per say, but a socialite’s equivalent. She didn’t even know why she was bothering, but the man was absolutely clueless and obviously had some demons to get out of his closet. Closet... was that the problem? No, no. Charlotte could peg a man’s nature. At least when it came to sexual attraction.

Stepping toward him again, she paused in front of him, standing uncomfortably close. She shoved the card toward his hands, forcing him to take it, and then brushed past, bumping softly into his side as she made her way out of the cloak room. “Owl me when all your little personalities decide to merge into one decent man.” Her voice drifted back, and she barely glanced over her shoulder to look at him as she swept out of the room and disappeared back into the crowd of the club.