[ That one's easy, too, as far as requests go, and he lifts a hand and turns his head to catch a leather fingertip between his teeth as soon as she's asked (or demanded) the action. Easily as if it's the natural next move, expected and given, he tugs sharply on the glove, then slips it off with his other hand. The action repeats, quick and practiced, as he maneuvers carefully around her in this new (familiar) proximity, and the soft sound of warm, malleable leather hitting the counter beside her hip is almost an echo, in the enduring silence within the bar. He catches the taste of the same dirt and motor oil he smells of sharp on his tongue when he reflexively licks his lips, a hasty, anxious tic, but worries more that she'll taste it, too, if she kisses him again. Just like the metallic hint of mako he's sure she knows too well, by now, it's another defect, imperfection in the mess he already is. (She's said so.)
But this isn't about him, and beside that he's confident enough now to know that it wouldn't matter very much even if it was. He's got problems, and they both know it, but coming in dirty and sidling up to her before he's had a chance to shower it off and pretend to be put together and well is by far the least of all of them.
With his newly bare hands, he catches hold of her knees and adjusts their position just a fraction of an inch. They're already poised easily to either side of his hips where her legs dangle over the edge of the bar, but shuffling his feet makes an equally accessible excuse to touch her again - one that doesn't quite toe the line in this new game.
No, that's when he settles his hands on the smooth, exposed skin of her thighs, just edging below the set boundary of her skirt. Which isn't much for coverage, here, and there's sure to be a strange mix of regret and relief when she does finally find herself in a more practical wardrobe. But that's a concern for later.
There are probably a few key items in his own cluttered dresser that she suffers the same confliction over. ]
no subject
But this isn't about him, and beside that he's confident enough now to know that it wouldn't matter very much even if it was. He's got problems, and they both know it, but coming in dirty and sidling up to her before he's had a chance to shower it off and pretend to be put together and well is by far the least of all of them.
With his newly bare hands, he catches hold of her knees and adjusts their position just a fraction of an inch. They're already poised easily to either side of his hips where her legs dangle over the edge of the bar, but shuffling his feet makes an equally accessible excuse to touch her again - one that doesn't quite toe the line in this new game.
No, that's when he settles his hands on the smooth, exposed skin of her thighs, just edging below the set boundary of her skirt. Which isn't much for coverage, here, and there's sure to be a strange mix of regret and relief when she does finally find herself in a more practical wardrobe. But that's a concern for later.
There are probably a few key items in his own cluttered dresser that she suffers the same confliction over. ]
And?