Diamonds at the Meeting of My Thighs
(Christine Chapel, Leonard McCoy)
For the following poetry excerpt at the where_no_woman July drabblefest:
Does my sexiness upset you?
Does it come as a surprise
That I dance like I've got diamonds
At the meeting of my thighs?
There's a pulsing beat in the club that Christine can feel reverberate through her arms, her chest, the hand she uses to hold her hair up off her sweaty neck.
It's hotter than hell in here, but she doesn't want to leave, although she sees the look Nyota gives her like, let's get out of here. Now. She loses her in the crush of the bodies in the middle of the dance floor, which only makes her grin in anticipation of dancing with strangers.
The music makes her feel alive, carefree again, more so than anything she's experienced since she boarded the Enterprise two years ago.
Someone with small, yet sturdy hands grabs her by the hips and pulls her so that their bodies are close enough that she can feel breasts smashed against hers and warm breath in her ear. She looks up into the woman's face and opens her mouth to say something—what she doesn't know, it's too loud to hear yourself think—but has her lips taken in a searing kiss that overheats her faster in a few seconds than ten minutes of dancing.
God, she's missed it.
She breaks reluctantly from the kiss, gasping, and turns away only to be hip-to-hip with a with a man with lips the color of cherries and shimmering skin. Christine takes his lead and wraps her arms around his waist and sways against him, pushed closed by the people crazy enough to stay in the middle of such a mob. She spins around again on the next song to face a woman with a mass of curly hair and silver tattoos on her cheek, then a man dressed all in black and green with hands the size of two of hers.
Her head feels lighter and lighter with each partner change, the cocktail she'd downed before heading onto the floor warring with the heat to make her dizzy.
Noticing the spots before her eyes absently, she manages to worm her way to the less-crowded wall and breathe in deeply, eyes closed.
"You okay?" The voice is familiar, male. She opens her eyes when he touches his fingers to her neck. It's McCoy and he has a look on his face she's never seen before and can't interpret.
"I'm great," she says dreamily, then curses herself because she sounds drugged and his face hardens into professional lines.
He has a tricorder with him, because what else would you bring to a club on shore leave? She leans against the wall as he pulls it from the bag on his hip and uses it to scan down her face, her neck, her chest, her stomach.
"You don't believe me," she states, not minding the concern, amused by it, amused by everything right now with the pulse of music still strumming through her blood. He's never seen her like this, they've never danced together or spent time together away from work and duty.
He reads the information on the screen, shrugs, and the instrument disappears. "You're right—vital signs are stable, just the usual dehydration from drinking alcohol and not enough water."
She rolls her eyes at him. "Well then get me some water and I'll be on my way."
His look is incredulous. "You're going back in there? But it's dangerous—the disease risk alone from skin-on-skin contact—"
She kisses his cheek and is thrilled to see the color reach his face. "I can take care of myself. If you're worried, why don't you join me?"
He clears his throat and gestures to the side of the bar where the less adverturous sit on stools and nurse beers or glasses containing bright and shiny liquids. She's unsurprised to see Nyota there, or Kirk right up next to her, leaning back on his chair and giving her shit. "I'll just be over there."
Christine nods and follows him to the bar to drink her required glass of water, waves to the other crewmembers around the table, then heads back in, arms raised in the air.
This is her time.