He was too furious to appreciate the show of educated technique in Tifa's strikes. Even that small jab that pelted his striking arm would have borne a nod of approval from their master, to say nothing of the resilience of her footing. Had it been the night prior, Vayne would have traded blows with blithe amusement. Any trace of it was lost in the haze clouding his mind - a haze that drowned out everything but the face and body that had him so mad with lust.

She had the gift of clarity. Vayne's gifts lay elsewhere: in force of will.

There was no elegance to his parries. Vayne's left forearm met Tifa's probing punch like a club, and he almost seemed to relish the bite of her knuckles. He angled that arm and threw a blow that was more power than finesse, and missed her shoulder by a hair. Adrenalized as he was, Vayne recognized the stance she was slipping into, one meant to keep her evasive and light on her feet. But he knew her dress would only allow those skilled legs so much room to move.

His, on the other hand...

Hips twisting, Vayne threw his leg forward, his shin scything toward her thigh to deliver what was ostensibly meant as a way to break her footing - but considering his state, Vayne could not trust his own strength anymore. The rage of his frustration tightened the muscle as well as any empowering magick could have. And he was done fighting the urges that the sight of her body in that low-cut gown conjured in him.