For a woman who was so entirely invested in exactly who she was, and refused to allow any outside influence to impress some other personality or meaning upon her, Kass did have to admit there was an appeal to being someone else for the night. To slipping into the skin, unadorned of ink by virtue of careful application of specialized make up, of another woman who was all sex appeal without cutting shards of glass or carving blades hidden away within her. Aside from her absolutely merciless promise to the blonde waiter if he chose to cross the line and break her rules in such an unsanitary way, she was free to play the role she had chosen.
Jessica Rabbit had been a figure she had been fascinated with for a short period in her childhood. Far from her own life, the smokey voiced femme fatale had appeared larger than life, with her absolutely clinging red dress that fairly defied the laws of physics and her ultra curvaceous body that did as well. She was, of course, mostly just the sex-laced arm candy of the comedic relief, as so many femme fatales boiled down to, but she had her own sort of personality that flickered to the surface, here and there.
Later, she would not have been able to say what particularly she had spoken to John about, the dark figure at her side. Vague remembrances of topics touched upon, but nothing concrete of their conversation itself, not beyond the tilt of her head to meet his eyes and the occasional rumble of laughter from him.
The novelty of the man in front of her could have easily worn off by then, if the attraction had been something fragile and fleeting, that once indulged in, lost its appeal. She had had that before, found that once tasted, a dish no longer held a particular draw to imbibe in it again. But it wasn't the case here, and she was all too aware of his proximity and certain aspects of him as they discussed whatever they did discuss. That the cupid's bow lips of his, seeming incongruous with the near-overly masculine appearance of the rest of him, were soft in comparison to the roughness of his jaw at the end of the day. Or the nimbleness to his fingers she hadn't attributed to them until she had experienced it first hand.
She raised her eyes, framed with lashes dramatically darkened, to his, and smiled, more Jessica than Kassandra for a heartbeat there. "You're dressed as a big ol' scary assassin, and you think little ol' me is the one looking dangerous?" The act was not quite complete without her gloved fingers lighting upon the center of his chest with one hand, and the other settling on a cocked hip, "And I didn't even bring my frying pan for this one."