“I’m the coward, am I?” Kristoffer hissed, eyes narrowing dangerously. Not that he made any attempt to remove his mask or declaim his identity to her, not after how this had gone. But really, she was the one with a mouth on her: she would never have dared say any of this to a gentleman if anyone knew her name or her face, would she? It would be society suicide. (If being a fucking slut wasn’t already society suicide enough.)
Thinking about this did make him slightly aware at the possibility that, anonymous or not, they were going to make a scene here if they kept on this way in the middle of the dance floor – and at this point Kristoffer wanted to throw up his hands and stalk off, because no whore was all worth this trouble... but then no doubt she would think she had won.
He glanced downwards, as if to feign that she’d had a problem with her shoes or something that might have caused them to stumble mid-dance – and he couldn’t actually try anything more right here, but if he could just make it to the end of the (overtly hostile) dance without storming off in surrender, that would be enough.
“You’re the one who’s all talk and no action,” he said, feeling her hand slipping from his shoulder and grabbing her by the waist in response, hard – less in an attempt to feel her up now, and more just digging his fingers in to keep her there, because he had assumed by her loosening grasp that she was going to try and flee. (And he wanted to be rid of her, true, but she wasn’t going to be the one to stalk off and leave him looking like he was the one to blame.)
Thinking about this did make him slightly aware at the possibility that, anonymous or not, they were going to make a scene here if they kept on this way in the middle of the dance floor – and at this point Kristoffer wanted to throw up his hands and stalk off, because no whore was all worth this trouble... but then no doubt she would think she had won.
He glanced downwards, as if to feign that she’d had a problem with her shoes or something that might have caused them to stumble mid-dance – and he couldn’t actually try anything more right here, but if he could just make it to the end of the (overtly hostile) dance without storming off in surrender, that would be enough.
“You’re the one who’s all talk and no action,” he said, feeling her hand slipping from his shoulder and grabbing her by the waist in response, hard – less in an attempt to feel her up now, and more just digging his fingers in to keep her there, because he had assumed by her loosening grasp that she was going to try and flee. (And he wanted to be rid of her, true, but she wasn’t going to be the one to stalk off and leave him looking like he was the one to blame.)
