She thinks his shades are cute, black anime-esque slashes across his face and though they hide his expression it's never enough, no, not when it comes to her. She knows the light that burns behind tinted lenses, cockiness to match the curve of his lips and the challenge in each movement, each gesture, each breath. She always liked a challenge, the puzzle of enigma, a set of problems at her fingertips waiting to be solved and writ off. He's no different, and yet he's so much more.
It's a dance, she thinks, a madcap tango, a burning waltz, something more and so intrinsically complex that she can't remember where they started, how, why, or where they'll end. (If ever, the amused thought, and she's always more pleased with it than she thinks she would be.) Each step is calculated and placed, each turn reckless and unfettered, careful control and frivolous uncaring. It's in the way they meet and the way they speak, circling each other with narrowed eye and teeth bared in amiable smiles, watching each other from across the expanse of a table. Urban predators at bay in the net of pomp and formality, restrained by pleasantries and company alone. Subtle impatience, sometimes it's a matter of who gives in first. Hands in their half-gloves folded over a pristine tabletop, heel tapping to an unheard beat against the leg of his chair. Glass of drink swirling in idle, manicured fingers, one heeled shoe bobbing to the invisible beat. She always takes pleasure in consuming her drink's garnishing olive, sliding it from it's pick with teeth, savouring the lingering tang of vodka with an almost improper degree of satisfaction, and seeing him, feeling him still in his seat for those few seconds.
Her victories are in the small things, the fleeting moments, minute pleasures to be savoured at will. A raised brow, the tap of a finger, a snort of quiet laughter, each one indulged in with her own quiet fervor.
Where she fancies herself cultivated, polished, elegant, she sees him wild. Sharp and sleek, the predator he is, and as much potential as he may have to be more, she thinks it's okay, thinks it's perfect as is. A cultured man wouldn't smile the way he does, that fleeting quirk of his mouth, all confidence and bordering cocky. A genteel man wouldn't tip his cap (stupid and vintage and adolescent at it's core) and still make it look natural, perfect lines and movements each way. A refined man of refined circles would not be able to smile, to stutter her pulse and send the thrill of excitement down her spine with a simple, single glance over the rims of too-dark glasses. (Though still refined in his own way, in the way of tempered steel, forged iron.)
It's still a challenge, a dare when they meet. A quiet struggle for power when they circle, when smaller hands clasp onto broad shoulders and unfaltering fingers twist into the back of a designer blouse. Sometimes it switches, when she has him on his knees, on his back, breathless laughter and a quip on his tongue, when it's her back against the wall, his lap she's perched in, minute smile on her lips and a cutting remark at the ready. Sometimes it's equal, or not there at all, or it doesn't matter at all when it's just them, arms around each other and each gasping for breath against the other's mouth, skin on skin and only each other's name in their ears, slow and sensual, frenzied and desperate and uncaring of time or propriety, of the designer outfit crumpled on the floor or the gloves and shades lying forgotten on a chair.
She always liked a challenge, the puzzle of enigma, a set of problems at her fingertips waiting to be solved and writ off. He's no different, figured out and yet unsolved that he is, an ever-shifting puzzle that she takes so much pleasure in picking apart with each fleeting clash.
She likes to keep herself occupied, after all.