I know a bad boy when I see one.
It's in the way they hold themselves. The tilt of their heads, the way they look to see if anyone's watching them. Looking for . . . witnesses. Disposing of observers before they can squeal. Before bad boys are revealed for what they are. Most times, they don't want to be seen.
But sometimes, sometimes they do.
It makes whatever they're doing that's bad feel even naughtier. And if you look real close, you can see how that suits them just fine.
Satisfies them in the same way hearty burps please a chef, or how it pleases the artist when people can't tear their eyes away from the canvas.
That's a good word for you: Artist. My lips curl into a smile as I look upon you. Look upon you well. I see you.
From the way you look back, I know that my appreciation hasn't gone unnoticed.
The sparkle of a hidden laugh in the eyes. A returned smile that's too knowing. A hint of the forbidden in the way you touch things, whether people or objects, lingering for a fraction of a second too long. Delicious, delightful avarice. Never unseemly, but definitely there.
You might hide it behind the facade of wearied resignation, hands folded in genteel poise. You might sigh and talk of bygone days, past loves and passions as though you possess neither. You might say words that bespeak dignity and pride, and faded, wounded nobility. I don't doubt you have these in scores.
But under that, I smell . . . hunger.
Dangerous men love to do dangerous things. The deadlier the better. Isn't that the real reason you came with me?
Don't forget that I've seen you fight. On the surface, you are grace and control incarnate. But at your heart, you're a beast at supper. Howling and ravenous. A beast that can neither subdue appetite nor slake thirst.
You can't fool me. I know what you are.
Perhaps you've forgotten. Hmm, you forgetting, that's funny. Maybe you believe you've buried it under all the pain. Maybe you've lied to yourself so well that even you believe the story you've made of your life.
Do you know what a temptation you are to me? My heart races thinking of how best to get at that hot heart under all that cold aloofness. Crack you open and let your heat burn me to ashes. I long to poke the sleeping tiger. To remind you of who you are.
What fun I would have!
I know a bad boy when I see one.
You, Thane Krios, are a bad, bad boy.
Plus, the skintight leather is a dead giveaway.