His smile was a devilish one, so it liked blood he thought to himself.
He pushes her head from side to side examining her face further before letting go and sitting back. 
Casually he removes the black glove from his left hand and rests his knuckles upon the table, facing his open palm to the roof. His hands bore the marks of many years of physical labour.
A mere wave of his other saw a vertical split open in his palm.
He closed his eyes, searching for concentration. His smirk fades as a seriousness takes over, recalling that which had long since been used.

Then it happened, slowly spiraling up from his wound a thin trail of deep red blood defied gravity as the slimey liquid snaked through the air, rolling over itself to form a floating fist sized bubble before the woman.
At that size the man lets out a small groan as he cuts off the supply. 
Ignoring the floating pool of his own blood he quickly puts his glove back on.

He gives it a moment to study her reaction, it's reaction.
If nothing pleasing comes from that experiment with yet another wave of his hand the glob of liquid will attack her open wound.