could appreciate a beautiful female body and she’d experimented a time or two with the making-out thing. This girl wasn’t trying to come on to her. She was a reverse image of Simone, almost ridiculously so, like a photographic negative. Short, white-blonde hair, but deeply tanned skin. Dark eyes. Pale mouth. Even her clothes, covered in sequins and glitter, were the opposite of Simone’s tailored shirt and skirt.
They turned heads when they picked up a coordinated set of steps. The other woman grinned, tossing her blonde hair and shaking her ass. Simone, laughing, matched it.
And this, this was what she loved. Losing herself in the music. Not giving a single tiny fuck about how she looked or what anyone thought. Letting it all out, getting loose, it didn’t matter if she made a fool of herself or seduced an army, all that mattered was giving in to the need to move her body.
The song changed, and with a little bow the other woman danced away, leaving an empty space that was filled immediately by a tall man with a fringy Mohawk and amazing biceps revealed by his black tank top. Splashed in white across the front of it was a rabbit with a skull face and the name of a band Simone had heard of but never listened to. In the black light overhead, his teeth gleamed very bright.
He didn’t grab her—that would have earned him a not-so-accidental kick to the shins or a jab to the side. Instead, he held out a hand almost formally, like an old-fashioned gentleman asking a lady for a waltz. The gesture was incongruous in this crowd of jerking, twisting, and grinding dancers, but it worked. Simone took his hand and let him twirl her. Again, the music changed, one song blurring into the next, and they both moved with it at the same time.
His lips moved, speaking words she couldn’t hear and didn’t care to interpret. Shaking her head, Simone indicated that she couldn’t understand him. With his hand still in hers, he tugged, bringing his mouth closer to her ear so she could hear his question.
“What’s your name?”
It was her usual practice never to give her real name to men she met in bars, but this time Simone didn’t even have to come up with the standard answer of “Mary” or “Susan.” Before she could say a word, a big hand had gripped the tall guy’s shoulder, half turning him. Elliott, with a smile that was all teeth, didn’t have to say a word. All he did was jerk his chin to the side, and the tall guy gave Simone a sheepish grimace and ducked out of the way.
“Thought you didn’t dance,” she shouted over the beat and throb of the music as Elliott pulled her into his arms.
She’d expected a bob and weave. Maybe even a grinding pelvis against her, that was common enough. She ought to have known better from Elliott Anderson.
That man could dance.
One hand on her waist, the other taking her free hand, he led her into a pseudo jitterbug/waltz combination that kept them spinning until the other people on the dance floor cleared the way. Simone hadn’t done any formal dancing in years, though once upon a time she’d taken lessons every week. Elliott, however, knew how to lead, so that even a woman who hadn’t had any dance training might’ve been able to keep up with him—but he took it one better when he saw that Simone knew the steps. He raised his brows at her after a slightly more complicated combination of steps, and Simone, grinning, heart pounding, nodded.
“Let’s go,” she cried.
That’s when Elliott really began to dance.
He didn’t lead her into anything showy for the sake of it. Every step, every move, built one upon the other so that even as the music changed—was the DJ watching them? Catering to them? Simone began to anticipate what Elliott would do next. Their eyes met and held, and the subtle press and release of his hand on her waist or the grip of his fingers against hers told her where to go. How to move. And she let him lead, laughing into breathlessness as he twirled
They turned heads when they picked up a coordinated set of steps. The other woman grinned, tossing her blonde hair and shaking her ass. Simone, laughing, matched it.
And this, this was what she loved. Losing herself in the music. Not giving a single tiny fuck about how she looked or what anyone thought. Letting it all out, getting loose, it didn’t matter if she made a fool of herself or seduced an army, all that mattered was giving in to the need to move her body.
The song changed, and with a little bow the other woman danced away, leaving an empty space that was filled immediately by a tall man with a fringy Mohawk and amazing biceps revealed by his black tank top. Splashed in white across the front of it was a rabbit with a skull face and the name of a band Simone had heard of but never listened to. In the black light overhead, his teeth gleamed very bright.
He didn’t grab her—that would have earned him a not-so-accidental kick to the shins or a jab to the side. Instead, he held out a hand almost formally, like an old-fashioned gentleman asking a lady for a waltz. The gesture was incongruous in this crowd of jerking, twisting, and grinding dancers, but it worked. Simone took his hand and let him twirl her. Again, the music changed, one song blurring into the next, and they both moved with it at the same time.
His lips moved, speaking words she couldn’t hear and didn’t care to interpret. Shaking her head, Simone indicated that she couldn’t understand him. With his hand still in hers, he tugged, bringing his mouth closer to her ear so she could hear his question.
“What’s your name?”
It was her usual practice never to give her real name to men she met in bars, but this time Simone didn’t even have to come up with the standard answer of “Mary” or “Susan.” Before she could say a word, a big hand had gripped the tall guy’s shoulder, half turning him. Elliott, with a smile that was all teeth, didn’t have to say a word. All he did was jerk his chin to the side, and the tall guy gave Simone a sheepish grimace and ducked out of the way.
“Thought you didn’t dance,” she shouted over the beat and throb of the music as Elliott pulled her into his arms.
She’d expected a bob and weave. Maybe even a grinding pelvis against her, that was common enough. She ought to have known better from Elliott Anderson.
That man could dance.
One hand on her waist, the other taking her free hand, he led her into a pseudo jitterbug/waltz combination that kept them spinning until the other people on the dance floor cleared the way. Simone hadn’t done any formal dancing in years, though once upon a time she’d taken lessons every week. Elliott, however, knew how to lead, so that even a woman who hadn’t had any dance training might’ve been able to keep up with him—but he took it one better when he saw that Simone knew the steps. He raised his brows at her after a slightly more complicated combination of steps, and Simone, grinning, heart pounding, nodded.
“Let’s go,” she cried.
That’s when Elliott really began to dance.
He didn’t lead her into anything showy for the sake of it. Every step, every move, built one upon the other so that even as the music changed—was the DJ watching them? Catering to them? Simone began to anticipate what Elliott would do next. Their eyes met and held, and the subtle press and release of his hand on her waist or the grip of his fingers against hers told her where to go. How to move. And she let him lead, laughing into breathlessness as he twirled
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