She felt feral when she was around him, reduced to some base animal that had to have him. She circled around him; wary, watching, distracted by others, curt nods soon sending them away. He knew she was there, of course he knew. But he never looked directly at her. Even hunters can be easily spooked.
Instead, he casually engaged with others, made chat, laughed appropriately at jokes, nodded with interest at another someone’s story. Occasionally he would separate himself from the herd and take some quiet moments in dark corners, waiting to see if she would come for him. Idly browsing a bookshelf, refilling a drink, sitting quietly on the stairs. Disappointed each time that she still didn’t approach.
He was downstairs watching a small group playing music when she was suddenly standing over him. A guitarist finding her rhythm with a bongo player, a vocalist quietly humming along: none of them gave a second’s notice to the woman standing over the man lounging on the floor.
He had a second to register her feet beside his leg. The thought “Oh, heels…” had time to form before he raised his eyes to her face. His slow smile was still expanding when she crouched down beside him and looked intently at his face. His smile wavered, his expression became a question mark.
She wanted to slap him. He was so beautiful she wanted to slap him, watch the shock and the recoil and the fear of it. Maybe he would try to shuffle away from her, a backwards scuttling. She’d be quick, though, to grab the collar of his shirt and hold him there. The thoughts flickered over her face like a strobe light slideshow of desire.
She bared her teeth and hoped it looked like a smile. She reached out to touch his face, he pressed his cheek into her hand, stroking himself against her fingers. She held back a growl.
“You’re coming with me,” she said.
“Yes,” he said. “I am.”