Got you where I want you...

I leaned intimately close to a vintage cast-iron sailor figurine anchored upon the sunlit sill, utterly amused by his weathered grit. The poor darling gripped a tarnished brass ship's wheel with both molded hands, steering stubbornly against an imaginary gale while pretending not to notice my fragrance in the morning breeze. Balancing my crimson goblet effortlessly in my left palm, I let my right gloved fingertips trace down the cold indigo lapel of his pea coat, purring a wicked challenge into his sculpted ear. With a slow, sultry tilt of my boot against the wheel's lower spoke, I nudged his stubborn helm half a turn. His rigid course broke, steering him straight into my shadow.

1 Nauk