There's a stranger standing here in front of her, begging for her attention. Normally she'd have blown him off by now. But normally she would not have called him over in the first place. This stranger is intriguing, and not for his strangeness. She scoffs, and takes a long, slow sip of wine. "You can tell nobody drinks on this planet," Bella offers with a shrug, "This might have been passable three hundred years ago or whatever, but these assholes just let it sit around this entire time. Fucking snobs break it out now to show off to the 'distinguished guests'. Like I can't tell the difference." She twists and sets the glass on the tray of a passing server. When she turns her attention to the boy again, he's still staring. At her hands. She rolls her eyes and sniffs the air. He smells of salt and sweat, in a way that reminds her of gymnasia and training and sets her heart racing. His sweat is not Her sweat, but it's... nnnnnm. Her eyes slide across his mask down to the undone button at the top of his jacket, and the definition of those slim-yet-tone, firm, [i]powerful[/i] shoulders. She licks his lips with rather more fang than strictly necessary. "There's nothing I hate more than somebody who's got something good in front of them and lets it go to waste. The galaxy's full of death and rot and pain, Pretty Boy. If you're lucky enough to stumble across something sweet, it should be a crime to ignore it. In fact, mmm, Praetor, aren't I? I say it [i]is[/i] a crime." Bella's hand is swift as wind. Her talons are cool on Skotia's cheek, but carefully curled to the side. She squeezes with the strength of titans and the gentleness of the bedroom all at once. She takes his jaw and leads his eyes forcefully away from her hand and toward more beautiful pastures. To her waist, and the inviting softness of her stomach all draped in gossamer. Up and up, there's a good boy, to the mountains rising up on her chest. And this is where she leaves him, watching her breasts. Not her face, not her eyes, but every little sway the follows the motion of her body, and every subtle bounce that makes the shifting of her feet. She feels the heat building on his skin. She feels his mouth fall slack against her fingers. She feels his neck craning and watches his eyes begin to dart. And she knows, with a secret thrill, that this is not shyness. He doesn't try to find the floor, but strains against her grip with helpless, flustered hope that he might find the secret angle her designer did not intend and catch a glimpse of the dark buds hidden underneath the intricately patterned lace. Bella grins. Her spine is tingling with the rush of electricity and eyes that see her, want her, need her. But her fingers show the mercy her heart refuses to, and finally tilts the boy's head up to look at her face. Even through his mask, she can see how flustered he is. His body reeks of excitement, a new and far sweeter kind of sweat that clings to his skin under his fine, rich clothes and mixes with the delicious salts that pull at the deepest corners of her memory. "Good boy," she purrs, "What a fine citizen of the Empire! Would you like a reward from your Praetor? Then come and dance with me. The night is only halfway gone, and I've got so many eyes left to steal." She takes his jaw more firmly and nods his head before he can ruin the moment by speaking. She feels him follow, not offering the slightest bit of resistance. There's another spark the builds inside her, and it burns like hungry fire. Beautiful trusted to her instincts, right? Then nothing she does tonight is wrong. With a firm tug of his wrist, Bella pulls Skotia onto the dance floor. In another moment her hands are all about him, guiding his to where she wants them on her body. And they dance, pressed deliciously tight together. Every step in accordance with her will. Is this what you came for, Pretty Boy?