Natasha notes his reaction, files it away for later. There's an incredible responsibility in what she does, if it's done well. Hell, if it's done even halfway competently. It's her job to know his mind as well as he does, possibly better. He's giving up control, which means his safety on every front has become her burden. It's not one to be shouldered lightly.
"Then we begin," she says, with another little smile. She slips one shoulder of her wrap free and lets the flowing material pool around her feet, leaving her in her black jumpsuit and boots, the belts, the fingerless gloves, Widow's Bites on her wrists. It's a happy coincidence that she's already more or less dressed the part for what she has in mind. The zipper she lowered earlier is just below her breasts, the shadowed curves of her cleavage visible in the plunging V of pale skin.
A few people in the milling crowd have stopped, curious eyes turned toward the pair. Some people get off on doing, and some people get of on watching. She sizes each of them up, marking the way they're dressed, the way they hold themselves, where their eyes linger, how close they move, how prominently they put themselves in her line of vision. She focuses in on one young man. "Can I borrow your knife?" There's a flicker of surprise before a butterfly knife is removed from a pocket, a raised eyebrow that asks how she knew. But she just holds her hand out.
Once it's handed over, she flips it open with a practiced ease, twirling it through her fingers a few times. They're putting on a show, after all. It's a good blade, thin and sharp, well taken care of.
no subject
"Then we begin," she says, with another little smile. She slips one shoulder of her wrap free and lets the flowing material pool around her feet, leaving her in her black jumpsuit and boots, the belts, the fingerless gloves, Widow's Bites on her wrists. It's a happy coincidence that she's already more or less dressed the part for what she has in mind. The zipper she lowered earlier is just below her breasts, the shadowed curves of her cleavage visible in the plunging V of pale skin.
A few people in the milling crowd have stopped, curious eyes turned toward the pair. Some people get off on doing, and some people get of on watching. She sizes each of them up, marking the way they're dressed, the way they hold themselves, where their eyes linger, how close they move, how prominently they put themselves in her line of vision. She focuses in on one young man. "Can I borrow your knife?" There's a flicker of surprise before a butterfly knife is removed from a pocket, a raised eyebrow that asks how she knew. But she just holds her hand out.
Once it's handed over, she flips it open with a practiced ease, twirling it through her fingers a few times. They're putting on a show, after all. It's a good blade, thin and sharp, well taken care of.