[He whisks her to her feet, taking her white hand in his, and it is such a silly little moment of indulgence, something which should be politely refused and turned away with the merest of lukewarm smiles. But the brief spark of mutual connection, no matter how shallow or fleeting, has them caught together in this moment, for better or for worse. Whether they will part as strangers or a little closer than before is up to chance, and it is a (dangerous, risky, foolish) chance to take, but one that they've taken and embraced with open arms.
She has never been much of a dancer, relying on the man to guide her through his lead, and the same goes for tonight. Her hands are slightly cool compared to the heat of his fingers, surprisingly sturdy and still, her slender weight resting against him. Attempting to match his steps with tentative movements, she squeezes a little tighter than necessary, betraying her nerves.
But then, why would she be anxious at all?]
I certainly hope this is one of those times.
[She chimes in, still speaking as if all the troubles in the world narrows down to whether her whims will be met or not, whether the music will keep playing and the drinks will keep liberally flowing. She is doing her utmost to dispel his image of her, distressed and as if about to cry, bothered by something as ridiculously trifling as morbid conversation. She has nearly made a terrible wreck of things, but to be fair, he is partly to blame, for demanding answers to questions which shouldn't be asked.
His hands feel rougher than a businessman's should be, patches of hard callouses pressed against her soft skin. Without a single word, he incites yet even more questions, with no answers supplied. No man ordered to attend gay little parties like this should feel so harsh to the touch, and again, the question lurks: Just who is he?]
no subject
She has never been much of a dancer, relying on the man to guide her through his lead, and the same goes for tonight. Her hands are slightly cool compared to the heat of his fingers, surprisingly sturdy and still, her slender weight resting against him. Attempting to match his steps with tentative movements, she squeezes a little tighter than necessary, betraying her nerves.
But then, why would she be anxious at all?]
I certainly hope this is one of those times.
[She chimes in, still speaking as if all the troubles in the world narrows down to whether her whims will be met or not, whether the music will keep playing and the drinks will keep liberally flowing. She is doing her utmost to dispel his image of her, distressed and as if about to cry, bothered by something as ridiculously trifling as morbid conversation. She has nearly made a terrible wreck of things, but to be fair, he is partly to blame, for demanding answers to questions which shouldn't be asked.
His hands feel rougher than a businessman's should be, patches of hard callouses pressed against her soft skin. Without a single word, he incites yet even more questions, with no answers supplied. No man ordered to attend gay little parties like this should feel so harsh to the touch, and again, the question lurks: Just who is he?]