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She nibbles on his chin.
It's an intoxicating feeling that makes her sink into the roughness of his skin against her lips. So she stays there enjoying it some more as she gives a few peeks to his face—completely avoiding his lips, giggling at the slight growl coming from the depths of his mouth. His palms are on all the exposed skin he finds on her back, faster and more impatient than her, but she doesn't care. She slows him down when her fingers start caressing his neck, massaging the skin there with her nails, digging into it too hard until he's obeying her again. Out of breath now, she climbs up to his open mouth, and finally begins to kiss him—slow and warm. Twilight, much more in a hurry, makes her effortless kiss desperate and seeking, and caresses her tongue with his, stealing the flavor of steel and roses from her mouth to his own one—to hold it on himself forever, like a fingertrip, a trace of her on his whole being. But she's naturally faster than him, and nibbles on his tongue to slow him down again.
As heated as the kisses go, lips swollen and almost bruised, it becomes now a furious tango between them: first his feet between her black heels, then her thigh almost completely around his hip, moving with grace in her long dress as she presses him more against the corner of the wall, and finally both of their fingers firmly interwoven together fighting to see who takes control—the silence of the cold night becoming the music around them.
It always goes that way, anytime they're together like this: him trying to take the lead, and she winning him over. He knows she could beat him up in a fight, defeat him without blinking, and hates how it happens the exact same thing in this case. Yet he's desperate to taste her, against the cold of the winter night: longing to bury himself in the perfume of her skin, on the warmth of her open pores, to take her right here and now. But she has always been a bit more powerful than he is, and seems to enjoy the impatient noises she provokes under her cares.
Their clothes are almost completely messed up and thored apart, resulting from their works done on the fights they had on different sides, and he's sinking his nails too strongly on every patch of skin he finds where her dress is ripped and open. But she's busy slipping her fingers under the coat of his green suit, almost completely broken after being exposed to an explosion that he most certainly caused, and begins running her hands from his shoulders down to the waistcoat, making him shiver as she's pressing her long nails harder on his chest, and on the begging of his hips. Twilight lunges for her with a growl, and she's sighing longly as his hands finally reach the back of her thighs—grabbing and squeezing them.
In a new rhythm, his mouth skips from her shoulders to her throat, back and forth. He does it with a desperation that makes her knees almost give in, the way he’s going: soft but dangerous, fingers digging into her legs, making her arch against him. He grunts and, undisguisable, moves his hands from the assassin's back to her shoulders again, before reaching the curve of her breasts. But she's faster, again, and pulls his hand away, almost smiling as his mouth still moves and licks every nook and cranny of hers. His palm strokes her leg and trails up her arm to wrap around the back of her head, and his fingers sink in her black hair and tug. She gasps at this, and drows a last time in the taste of almonds and gunpowder of his mouth, eyes shut against the world slowly going quiet around them.
Finally they slowly break apart together, still in sync, and their breaths are long and heavy against each other as they stare with tired and clouded eyes. He traces her lower lip with his thumb, wiping it, and the night hums a last ballad around them.
"I will see you at home," she whispers against his mouth, and places a final soft kiss to his wet, swollen lips.
Twilight stands there against the wall without saying a word, still breathing in and out, and stares at her frame slowly growing smaller in the distance of the night—meddling with the starless sky. Now in solitude he finally lets out a long sigh, knowing that he must have traces of lipstick all over his face, and combs his hair back again as he keeps staring into the horizon where she left.
No matter how calm and reserved his wife is all the time—whenever they bump into each other at work she always, always has to be the one in control.
(he swears he will get his way on her very soon, although deep down, he has always liked it more this way too).