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She's got freckles.
Her sweaty body, rather red from the heat of the Turkish bath, was dotted with freckles. They are small and scattered across the chest, shoulders, and back.
Just like the stars on a midsummer night, so are her freckles.
They have various shades.
Some are more reddish, some are dark, but never as dark as her raven hair.
Kneeling before me, chest heaving, skin sweaty, and lips once tinted with crimson lipstick, she was the closest representation of ecstasy.
First time I saw her, opening the door for me, a whiff of her overpriced French perfume completely invaded my space; it is as if her perfumed essence anticipates the entrance of this woman, and she takes her place on the throne which belongs to the gods,
Her skin with her heat releases an intense rosehip scent. It's pleasant, flirtatious, and bloody seductive.
She must have noticed me, as my gaze lingered on her a little too long.
Impossible, however, to be able to look away from her, without feeling like silly schoolboys grappling with her first loves.
I tried with difficulty not to blush; and she smiled at me.
But it wasn't the same mischievous smile she'd flashed at me in the Andrews' bathroom. It was sincere, genuine, and I would venture to say coy. All this was in stark contrast to the idea I had made of her shortly before her, seeing her with that tango dancer ... Sasha.
I think she is aware of her beauty; she uses it as a tool to get what she wants, I assume.
It seems that everyone is attracted to her in some way. She is certainly histrionic, and also very witty.
And quite unnerving too, I might add.
She is intelligent and particularly interested in getting into trouble, but she seems to be a brave woman, and a good one too.
Maybe I'm making too many unconfirmed guesses about her, but I wonder what it would be like to collaborate with her. I'm pretty sure, however things go, that she will be my downfall.
Literally.