“I said wear red, why blue?. Change it.”

An annoyed sigh escapes his lips as he unties the peacock-colored satin ribbons from your smooth, silky shoulders.

his eyes roaming over the brightly hued satin nightgowns under the dim lighting of the bedroom, which is cast by the faint shade of purple chandeliers hanging from the upper ceiling of the gigantic, lush room.

Lips meet in intermittent, tormented kisses, the sound of lips smacking while kissing, faint, muffled breaths escaping your mouth like a frosty wind entering a hut full of holes that make up the whistle of intruding winds.

Ooh, le chiffre is such a mean man, but he's yours.

His large calloused hands find their way to grasp your elegant narrow waist to pull you into his embrace, tangled there like some innocent, docile lamb in the arms of the sinister wolf that he is.

One of his hands rises from the narrowness of your waist to your free hair, his hand swimming and drowning in the silky material, which le Chiffre marvels at how it has no knots or tangles even without combing.

God, you are his ideal paradise that he spent his life searching for among the faded copies until he found you among the walkers on the sidewalk of his chaotic life.

But he did not let you go, but rather he grabbed you by the arms and between the ribs and fled with you, escaping from fate and the eyes of enemies, whose stinking hands might reach out to touch a single hair of your hair, but hell if le chiffre allowed anyone to touch his woman.

In his ribs and in his heart that beats for you with love, he may not want to wake up one day without you in his arms or without his head in your neck, without your lips on his pulse, without your softness and your intoxicating taste on his tongue during the hours of satisfaction and passion.

“Nightgowns, guess which one I like, I bought you a gift a quarter of an hour ago, so guess, and for every guess there’s a jewelry set, Mon petit ivrogne.”

His deep, baritone, hot whisper melts you faster than the lava of an erupting volcano.