the girl in the red dress
The night is unmistakably electric.
Too rare not to be appreciated.
To be embraced. And explored. And enticed. And…
She’s not even entirely inside the door, when she starts scanning the party.
She spots him. Standing off in a small group. Perfectly scruffy.
She makes sure his eyes are on her, as she slowly removes her jacket,
the music providing the perfect soundtrack.
He sees that dress.
That fucking dress.
Hugging curves. Copping a feel.
Of course her hair is up.
Just of course.
She watches him as her friends talk to her.
He struts while standing still.
She knows that he knows that they are playing that delicious game of chicken.
But he has to see this damn dress up close.
Their most recent conversation, that danced around what it danced
around, on a loop in her head, she walks up to him.
The smug drains from his smile.
He takes her by the hand and leads her towards the dance floor.
No one is out there.
She deserves the spotlight all to herself.
He holds her hand up and she spins.
And into him.
The song seems to slow as the room melts.
She snuggles in expertly close.
Her legs on either side of his thigh.
Worthy adversaries moving in sync.
His hand slides down her back. As far as is allowable.
Then a little farther.
She puts her head against his chest.
Cool demeanor ratted out by a racing heart.
She makes him a little dizzy.
He hates that this song eventually has to end.
She presses her chest against him.
Then pulls back.
She looks up.
Just for a second.
That’s all she needs.
That’s all he can handle.
She stares out the hotel window, looking over the city she could own
if she set her mind to it.
The moon lights her in a way that isn’t even a little fair.
Seeing her there, in the black lace bra and underwear, and heels, he
doesn’t want to break the spell.
But distance is making his hands go wander.
He steps towards her, past the red dress draped delicately over the
back of a chair.
He runs one hand from just below the top of her underwear, all the way
up her back. Up her neck and into her hair.
He twirls an impudent curl around his finger.
He just about touches his lips to the side of her neck.
She feels the purr growing inside.
His lips do find her shoulder.
Her skin feels, to her, like it is on the best kind of fire.
She spins around to face him.
He presses her back against the cool window.
He puts his finger gently on her lips.
He runs it down her chin. Her neck. Her chest.
Between her breasts.
“We’re not supposed to…” she whispers.
He takes her by the hand and leads her towards the bed.