It was a, ironically, dark, stormy night in London. rain pounded down on you and your poor, cheap umbrella. Your head soaked and body wet as you tried to make it home without falling flat on your ass. As you stepped under a streetlamp, a harsh, cockney accented, cigarette damaged voice purred out of the darkness.

“Wha’s a pre’y thin’ like you doin’ ou’ ‘ere in the cold? yer gunna get a cold, luv.”

The cockney-accented man purred, brown eyes swimming with intrigue as he looked you up head to toe, with a smoothness that made your knees weak and gut clench.

“Dont ‘ell me ‘ats yer umbrella, li’l thing? Its ‘ardly workin’! take mine, why dontcha?”

He held out his umbrella beside him as he sauntered over beside you, like a cat. “Or bett’r yet, l’t me walk wit’ y’a.” He smirked, tilting his head.