Title: Slow Dance

Author: cratkinson

Category: MSR, V

Rating: PG

Archive: Yes, please just let me know where.

Spoilers: None

Feedback: Yes, please.

Notes: Just read it slowly.

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I step nearer to him and feel his arms wrap around me as we begin a slow

shuffle. At first he is awkward and there is no pressure in his embrace. He

is giving me the chance to change my mind. I could break away from him with no

effort at all, if that were what I wanted. It's casual. Non-personal. Formal,

even. But I don't change my mind. I don't break away, and soon I feel his

hold change. A small change but a significant one - from hesitant to certain.

I settle my hands on his broad shoulders and his hands touch my back lightly. I

feel the hand at the small of my back pulling me just the tiniest bit closer

and I shift to narrow the space between us. His hold on me is still

undemanding, still casual, just . . . pleasant. I savor being held by him,

however lightly, as I savor any touch from him. His touch is usually brief and

purposeful. This time, though, his hand stays - its soft heat traveling

through my clothes to my skin - and allows me to relish the sensation.

We sway together and I feel surrounded by him. He fills my field of vision.

His arms are around me, his thigh occasionally brushing mine. I note the line

and texture of his throat just inches from my nose. One of his hands rests

just under my shoulder blade, warming me more than it should. I am close

enough that with just the smallest stretch of my hand I could "fix" a lock of

his hair that's not really out of place. I seriously consider it, anticipating

the feeling of his silky-rough hair sliding through my fingers.

Then I feel the hand on my lower back begin to move and every other thought

leaves my head. His fingers take up a slow, soft rhythm, brushing in circles

across my skin as if my clothing isn't there.

Exhilaration zings through me, radiating from my spine and sending distinct

tingles to my fingertips and toes. I'm sure I have stopped breathing for a

minute. I concentrate very hard on letting my breath out without uttering the

sound that is trying to force its way from my throat.

Circle . . . circle . . . circle . . .

It is the tiniest movement, not even particularly intimate, but my telltale

heart doesn't know that. It is pounding ferociously in my chest. I feel

certain that if I looked down, I could see the fabric of my blouse jolting and

my skin pulsing with every beat.

How can he do this? Have I ever felt this intense reaction to anyone's touch

before? Every stroke of his fingers feels like it was designed and tested to

elicit this response from me. I shift my gaze and catch the extraordinary

contrast between my skin and his dark suit. I notice that I have goose bumps

all over my arms and I suddenly feel them run over my entire body, the tiny

muscles under my skin contracting in response to the delicious, too-faint

pressure of his fingers.

Circle . . . circle . . . circle . . .

I can feel my eyes wanting to close, my head wanting to droop. I keep it

upright with an effort, but my eyelids feel heavy, lethargic. I try to keep

them open but they obey me slowly and then return to half-mast. I can feel

movement around us but the shift of his hand is my focal point. After an

exquisite eternity he slows the movement, his hand eventually stilling. I

almost have time to regret the cessation, but then I feel his palm flatten

against me, his fingers spread wide. The feel of his hand covering me is

totally voluptuous and I move a little closer to him, closing the gap a bit

more.

I risk a glance up at him and encounter his eyes, dark and intense. I smile a

little and he nods a little and then . . . I can't look away. I'm trapped in

his eyes. His smile, soft and warm, is shining out at me from his eyes. I

want to study his features to figure out how he does it, smiling so brilliantly

without moving a muscle, but I am mired in the sticky depths of his gaze.

I suddenly feel overwhelmed by what I see in him, but more, by what I am sure

he can see in me. With a monumental effort I wrench my eyes away from his. I

concentrate on the line of his shirt collar against his neck. I feel the

muscles under my hands shift as he bends his head down to mine and rests

against my temple. I can't help myself. I need to feel the warmth of his

skin. I turn my face and settle my cheek comfortably to his. I can hear his

breath in my ear and am pleased to note that his is as strident as mine.

How can I react like this to him? I am a grown woman who has been held by

enough men to know that this . . . awareness . . . is not common. That the

sensations I am feeling would be absent - or less - if it were anyone else

holding me. That his tantalizingly slow movements would just annoy me in

another man. But from him, it is the perfect pace. If his fingers brushing

the skin of my back makes my heart pound and my skin ripple, if his lightest

touch can garner this response, I want to enjoy every tiny step. I want to let

each moment exhaust its pleasure before we move on.

He moves his jaw a little, rasping his stubbly cheek against my soft one.

Shivers rush through me and I feel his arms tighten, slowly drawing me closer.

His hands slide across my back as his arms wrap fully around me, cocooning me

in his heat and scent. His arms are crossed over my back. His fingers drift

against my ribs lightly and then more firmly, sketching random patterns of

delight across my ultra-sensitive skin.

This time the caress is just that, a caress. Deliberate and devastating. My

head flops back on my suddenly limp neck. I pull it upright, but like my

eyelids, my muscles are feeling sluggish and uncooperative.

I am pressed to him tightly now, sealed to him from cheekbone to thigh. When

he moves, I move. Every inch of my body feels sensitized and my nerves are

screaming. My eyes close and my arms slide farther around his neck as he

drapes himself over me, bending impossibly far to nuzzle the spot where my neck

meets my shoulder. I tilt my head against his, wanting to hold him there, to

link him to me. One of my hands drifts to the back of his head and my fingers

finally slide through the hair that has tempted me so many times. I feather it

over and over, scraping my fingernails gently against his scalp until I feel a

shudder rack his shoulders. I smile to myself, primally satisfied by his

reaction to my touch.

I have wanted this for so long; I have needed to be a little nearer, to have a

little more. I feel him everywhere now, his harsh breath in my ear, his chest

hard against my softness, his knee insinuating itself between mine with each

small step. I want to stay like this forever, wrapped up in his strong arms

and unique essence.

My wandering fingers brush past his collar and I don't even try to resist the

urge to touch more of him. I slide my fingers down the back of his neck and

dip them as far as they will reach into the confines of his white collar. It

feels strangely, intensely intimate. I have touched much more of him than this

before. I've tended to wounds both physical and emotional. So why is it that

this little contact of skin on skin can make me feel so carnal?

I'm still contemplating this question when I feel his arm pulling away from me.

I begin to panic, but his other arm still holds me tight and I realize that

he's not ending this delicious interlude just yet. His hand pulls across my

shoulder blades and then down my side to rest on my waist. I feel his arm

moving with the sway of my hip. He tucks his fingertips under the hem of my

blouse and sudden heat slams through my body as his thumb brushes back and

forth over the bare skin of my side.

This time I can't stifle my gasp and I almost feel absurd for my reaction until

I hear a corresponding moan rumble through him.

My feet stop moving and my head falls forward onto his shoulder. I know my

mouth is gaping, my jaw muscles slack as I try to breathe, but I don't care.

All I feel is that point of contact, one thumb and one tiny patch of skin. I

foolishly think to myself that it must be new skin because if it had ever been

touched before, it would not feel so sensitive. Would certainly not send these

signals of something better-than-heat and not-quite-electricity to my

overwhelmed brain.

I feel him urging me to move again, to take up our shuffle where I left it. I

can barely make my feet obey me. I feel his arm tighten just a little when I

lose the rhythm of the music, but his thumb never stops its back and forth

seduction.

I can't concentrate. I can't control or even gauge my reactions. I know that

I have never felt like this before; I could never forget this feeling. Instead

of the cool controlled woman I am proud to be, I feel visceral - just a pile of

nerves, a collection of instincts.

His hand slides a fraction of an inch higher, then a little higher. With each

new movement, I feel my breath grow more ragged and harsh and my muscles less

willing to move. As his fingers move against my skin - first just one, then

two and three - I know beyond a doubt that I will never get my fill of his

touch. And I know that I will never want the touch of another man. I have

been touched by men before. I have a fair basis for comparison. But those

memories seemed pallid and flavorless in comparison to this simple,

overwhelming connection.

He draws his hand away until just his fingertips are floating along my skin.

It almost tickles, but I wouldn't flinch away from him even if I could. I have

lost track of my feet, but I know that he is steering me. I want to touch more

of him. I fill my hungry palms with his shoulders, running them over him as

far as I can reach without relinquishing my hold on him, regretting the layers

of clothing between my skin and his. I feel a tremor run through him and his

shoulders heave with a deep breath.

I continue caressing his back and shoulders with one hand and slide my other

through his hair. I let my hand rest on the column of his neck, covering his

warm skin with my palm and investigating the amazingly soft skin behind his ear

with my fingertips. The sound he makes when I caress him is more of a grunt

than a groan, and is just as satisfying.

As if mimicking my hand's clasp on his neck, he finally presses his whole hand

to my side, his thumb reaching for my navel and his fingers stretching around

to the valley of my spine. The heat from his skin burns me and I think I grunt

myself. His palm is hard and I am at once satisfied and hungry.

Oh, there will be no pretending to ourselves with this. In no way can this be

considered a dance between friends. We are holding each other with fierce

possessiveness and a need that cannot be mistaken. And this close together, he

can't possibly misinterpret my reactions to his touch, nor his to mine. This

will change things. It's not what I expected to do the trick, but the trick is

done.

I feel his arms relax their hold and his hand slips from my side, leaving my

skin feeling cold and bereft. I clutch at him and mutter, "No," trying to keep

him close to me, not wanting reality to intrude on us.

He instantly wraps me up again, pulling me even closer, until I can't breathe.

I don't complain. We keep swaying and then, in a rough voice I have never

heard from him before, he says, "The music stopped."

END

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