Leaning across her dressing table, the Mayor carefully applies a flawless coat of scarlet lipstick; the tone reminiscent of expensive Shiraz. She muses pensively over the darkened shade favoured by the blonde this afternoon at the diner; a deep burgundy that had lent her a vampish quality. This, and the red blossoms of the Sheriff's own blood, are the only times she has seen the younger woman with her lips painted, and there is something unnerving about the way it had offset her pale features. The brunette supposes some women - such as the irksome Swan woman - are destined to be natural beauties, while others - if the bombshell reflected back at her in the mirror is anything to go by - can pull off a little heightened drama.
A touch of class.
Flashing her teeth, she turns her head to the side to check none of her lipstick has wandered, before offering her reflected self a sinful smirk and primping fussily at her hair. She has changed outfits since her encounter with Emma at Granny's; trading charcoal grey for satin black, and she assesses the result appreciatively. The suit she now wears is a piece of impeccable craftsmanship, its tailoring unfit for any inferior frame to her own. The black dress pants and matching blazer speak of wealth and luxury while remaining carefully suited to her projected town image. The silk shirt she dons beneath, however, is creamy and ever so slightly sheer; normally not an issue when paired with nude lingerie, but the black balcony bra she currently wears creates a tantalizing shadow.
Perching on the edge of her bed, she slips into black, patent heels. There's a flutter in her stomach as she goes about preparing herself to leave that she waves easily aside. She supposes she could sit a while longer and analyse the peculiar situation in which she finds herself, but she's simply not the sort. She is perfectly comfortable within herself and therefore pays the sudden change to her relationship with the Sheriff little mind. She detests the younger woman just as much today as she has in the weeks before; the fact that the blonde has turned out to be remarkably desirable - a trait that Emma keeps a well-guarded secret, she muses cruelly - is simply one redeeming feature in a minefield of flaws. As such, she simply plans to make the most of a bad situation.
Stalking over to the door to don her overcoat and let Sydney inside, a malicious smirk alights her lips as she is willing to bet just about everything she owns that the blonde is unlikely to see things quite so straightforwardly.
Emma sits with her feet propped up on the desk in her office, rocking precariously onto the back legs of a her chair and nipping occasionally at the bottle of Jim Beam she grips in a white-knuckled fist. Her hair looks as though she has spent the better part of the afternoon sticking her finger in an electrical socket with the way it tumbles in every direction but the right one. In reality, it's her hands that are to blame; running nervously through golden curls over and over.
The high windows that line the Station's two jail cells bleed twilight, and she's thankful for the fact that she'd had the good sense to text Mary Margaret about five shots ago to let the schoolteacher know she was going to be staying late.
She rewards herself with a swift swig from the bottle.
She had been alright up until early afternoon; a little apprehensive, sure, but the stubborn streak to her nature had refused to let the Mayor's suggestive words intimidate her. Still, as the hours and minutes ticked by with no sign of the bothersome brunette, her mind had slowly begun struggling to analyse the situation, and the more she's tried to push aside bothersome thoughts and theories, the more her stomach has begun to crawl with trepidation.
With her body devoid of the sweet comfort from the darker woman's cider, she has found herself confused and muddled in her thoughts.
At four PM she had slipped briefly from the office - scanning her surroundings as she'd jogged to the small convenience store on the corner; ready to catch Regina as though she'd believed the brunette might be lying in wait to ambush her- and she'd purchased the economy-sized bottle of bourbon she now nurses.
She'd forbidden herself from taking more than a quick sip due to her still being on the clock, but that was over three hours ago now, and the bottle is half empty, and her nerves are shot, and she feels both much too warm and chilled to the bone.
"Fuck..."
The logical side to her knows that she should just pack up shop and head home. The night is still fairly young, and the thought of spending it finishing off her bottle of whisky under the quietly disapproving, but always kind eye of Mary Margaret while they discuss the ins and outs of nothing in particular - a companionable act she had never partaken in before moving into her little bedroom in the loft - is undeniably appealing.
The part of her that is everlastingly stubborn, coupled with the warm ache between her legs, keeps her balancing back on the chair. She has often thought the two things might be perpetually linked in her case, and imagines this to be the cause of a high proportion of the trouble she's found herself in over the years.
Damn poster-child for hate sex...
Her lip curls at the thought, and she takes yet another sip of bourbon; wincing as the glass of the rim rubs against her damaged bottom lip.
The fact that she has in no way managed to get her head around what had occurred between herself and the Mayor in the sober light of day only serves as one factor to her apprehension, however. The other is the knowledge that the brunette will most definitely be out for revenge.
Well, she's already pulled the act with the cuffs, it'll be hard to beat that!
"Let her try..."
As if on cue, she cocks her head to the side as a soft click sounds from down the hall. The silence that follows is heavy, and she holds her breath to better decipher any further signs of life. After what seems to be an extortionately long time, her well-trained ear picks up on the ever-so-faint tap of stiletto heels on linoleum. The interval between each click is telling of one wishing to sneak in unheard, and she has the sudden, bizarre urge to hide behind the door and jump out at the brunette when she enters.
"Boo, bitch..."
Instead, she lowers the hovering legs of her chair to rest back on the ground and takes a final swallow of bourbon before placing the bottle surreptitiously beneath her desk. She straightens her jacket around her shoulders, pulls her top free of creases - while effectively dragging the neckline down an inch to allow just a hint of cleavage - and straightens her legs to cross her feet on the desk. She gives herself a moment to pull in a deep breath, before letting it out and fixing herself with a neutral, almost bored expression.
A shadow falls across the threshold, before being broken by the pointed toe of an expensive shoe. Regina comes into view and gives the blonde a distasteful once over. The younger woman looks much the same as always; dressed like some cheap protagonist from a shitty adventure novel.
Emma catches the brunette's gaze roaming over her clinically, and allows herself to do the same; taking in the flawless silhouette created by the Mayor's suit. It nips her in at the waist and gives her legs a flattering illusion of length while dropping perfectly to show off painful-looking heels. The creamy silk of her shirt catches the light over the overheads, and the blonde finds herself momentarily mesmerised as she tries to get a better glimpse of the black lace that forms a tantalizing shadow beneath.
"Sheriff."
"Madame Mayor."
The blonde makes no move to get up for her guest, and Regina drops her eyes disdainfully to the hard soles of leather boots. The brunette can detect the definite scent of alcohol lingering in the airless room, and she weighs up the pros and cons of calling the younger woman on it. In the end, she decides to let it slide. After all, she's certain that she is the cause of the Sheriff being driven to drink - at least, she is this afternoon - and there is something so endearingly, pathetically flattering about that.
"You said you had something of mine?"
Emma's voice is gruff; laced with disinterest in her attempt to command authority. The Mayor wonders if the blonde realises how tiresome this little habit is; having been subjected to it for the best part of four months. Her actual tone - when not so concerned about coming across as a stoic hardass - is one the brunette actually finds surprisingly pleasant.
Second to the soft cries elicited from bloodied lips last night.
"I do."
Regina's own words come out in their familiar sultry purr, but she offers no further comment on the matter. A shapely brow raises back at her irritably as baited silence follows the Mayor's words. Finally, the blonde gives an exasperated sigh and throws her hands up in demand of an explanation.
"Well?"
"There's no need to get snippy with me, Miss Swan. I've come here to return something of yours out of my own goodwill, so you could at the very least pretend to be grateful."
"Ok, fine. What is it that you have so graciously kept me here well after hours to give back?"
"Hm. That irritable tone is most unappealing."
"Just give it to me, Regina."
"Say please..."
The brunette smirks as the Sheriff rolls her eyes in frustration.
"Don't start."
"Don't start what? I'm merely suggesting you show me some manners."
"Whatever... Ok, fine. Please can I have it?"
"Better. But not good enough."
"Oh, for fuck's sake!"
Emma swings her legs down off the desk to stand with her hands spread on its weathered surface; her stance every bit as impatient and hostile as her expression. The Mayor pays this little mind but does make a small note to herself that - whether uttered in irritation or ecstasy - something about the way the blonde curses demands her immediate arousal.
"Rudeness will get you nowhere, Sheriff..."
"I'm tired! Just give me whatever it is you came to give me. I don't have any interest in playing games."
The smirk on scarlet lips deepens as the Mayor greets this statement with little concern. If there were any truth to the blonde's words, she would have left the station hours ago.
But, instead, she has stayed. Just as the brunette had known she would.
"Hush"
"Don't tell me to-"
"-Turn around."
"What?"
That low tone again; angry, and so boringly caged. Regina sighs and gives a slow, impatient twirl of her finger.
"If you didn't hear me, the correct response would be 'pardon'. Given I know full well that you did, your question would imply that you failed to understand my meaning, and if that's the case, I'd be more than happy to assist you, dear?"
She adds an inflexion to the end of her statement, cocking her head sweetly. The disbelieving look on the Sheriff's face is perfection, and the brunette feels the heat between her legs intensify as the younger woman's anger thrums electrically.
Nevertheless, she knows Emma will comply. After all, she's stayed this long.
Narrowing her eyes murderously, the blonde turns to face the filing cabinets behind her.
"Good girl..."
The brunette allows herself a moment of uninhibited admiration for the pert denim now on display, before moving from her position in the doorway to take a seat in the visitor's chair across the desk from where the Sheriff stands with her back to her.
"Take off your jacket."
She's ready for further argument as she makes her demand, and she can tell from the way the blonde's shoulders square visibly that she is battling down the urge to snap back at her. For this reason, she's relieved when the younger woman's anger remains bottled up; the game of stripping the Sheriff sure to become tedious if alternated with heated debate about the removal of each garment.
Squeezing her eyes shut against the rage that threatens to volcanically erupt, Emma forces her mind to savour the potent aftertaste of the bourbon and lets her jacket fall to the floor. Silence follows, and although the room isn't particularly cold, she can feel her skin break out into gooseflesh.
Regina smiles to herself; the blonde's act of submission in removing her jacket setting the tone for this little encounter. Her eyes travel the well-toned expanse of the Sheriff's arms and back; the latter encased in cheap black fabric she highly doubts is a hundred per cent cotton. She ponders over the younger woman's impeccable physique despite seeming to do absolutely nothing to deserve it, and makes a mental note to investigate further. She has a feeling that if she were to take it upon herself to tail the blonde - for humiliation purposes only, of course - into the woods where she has frequently seen her disappear, she would play witness to some pretty hardcore cross-country running.
"Very good. Now your top, please."
The hesitation apparent in the blonde is short-lived this time, and she seems to relax as she plucks at the hem of her top and lifts it over her head. There's no finesse to the act; no burlesque peek-a-boo play; no sensual slowness. She removes the item just as the brunette is sure she does when alone.
This half-assed level of commitment seems suddenly less important when the Mayor takes in what the Sheriff wears beneath.
"Well... Now that is a surprise."
Dark eyes roam over the intricate detail of a perfect concoction of satin and lace. The crimson bra the younger woman wears is most certainly anything but cheap, and Regina silently awards the blonde a point in their current power play as she's forced to amend the rules to her game accordingly.
"Face me."
This time, Emma moves as soon as she's asked, and the ill-disguised tug to the corner of her mouth suggests she knows exactly what's going on. Her long hair tumbles lightly over the crimson cups - half satin, half just delicate lace - but she takes care not to let it obscure the view completely. The upper halves of the bra's cups are comprised of a simple net of lace that clings to globed flesh pleasingly. The brunette wets her lips subconsciously as she notes that the cups themselves are held together across the front by mere satin strings; crisscrossed like a scarlet target.
"Very nice, Miss Swan... Let's see if you can continue to impress me, or if this is merely a fluke... Your jeans. Take them off."
Green eyes remain locked with the Mayor's as the blonde slips open her belt and moves her hips to work down tight denim. When she gets the jeans midway down her thighs, she raises a brow, before moving her weight onto one leg and toeing off her boot with her foot. It's an undignified act - strangely boyish - and something the brunette has previously berated Henry for doing countless times. However, this method of removing her footwear is clearly well-practised, as Emma has both boots slung across the floor in no time before proceeding to kick her jeans the rest of the way down.
"Very graceful."
The Mayor scoffs, and the Sheriff shrugs in a way that suggests the darker woman would be a fool to expect anything else from her. Regina has to admit, it's a sentiment she shares. She finds her thought process greatly hindered, however, as she drinks in French-cut panties that contrast shockingly with pale skin.
So the woman does, in fact, own some matching underwear.
The brunette drops her attention momentarily to Emma's feet where she spies thick woollen socks that end a little below the knee.
Well... stockings would have been preferable, but this will have to do.
The Mayor muses, although she has to hide a smirk as she takes in the full picture presented by the blonde. The Sheriff looks divine clad in the expensive lingerie she wears, and despite her current coy expression, if Emma's timidity upon undressing yesterday is anything to go by, Regina suspects the younger woman is somewhat unaware of her appeal. It would be impossible to guess that this is what the blonde is hiding beneath her shitty collection of jackets and shirts, and there is something extremely alluring in that thought. Something secretive. Possessive.
Mine.
Offering Emma a business-like smile of approval, the Mayor turns for one of the cells with a beckoning curl of a perfectly manicured finger.
"If you would like to follow me, dear."