There was something broken in him. And she wanted so desperately to be the one to fix it.
"You would've loved the 1920s, Caroline," he murmured into her ear. She had to steel herself against the way he purred the syllables of her name, as if it meant something to him. Something personal. "Girls were reckless. Sexy. Fun. They literally used to dance until they dropped."
They twirled sharply in place. Caroline stared off into the distance, locking eyes with Tyler, who looked forlornly on from his place. But she didn't see him, not really.
Because she was in the 1920s, slow-dancing with a mysterious man in white. Promises of beauty and distant lands dripped from his eyes. His touch. His lips. And she knew, somewhere in the back of her mind, that Klaus was right. But she could never admit that truth, especially not in front of Tyler. She was supposed to love him.
She forced herself back into her mind, and something like a smothered scoff emerged from her throat. "I don't suppose that ever happened to their dance partners."
A pause.
"You should be nicer to me," he returned slightly coldly, changing the course of their conversation. It wasn't a suggestion, more like a demand. "I'm leaving town tomorrow. I'd invite you to come with me but we both know you're not ready to accept my offer. Perhaps one day...in a year..."
Caroline looked off at Tyler. Again, she didn't see him. Only the movement of his lips and his hands as they tightened against her body.
"...or even in a century, you'll turn up at my door and let me show you what the world has to offer."
He fell silent, anticipating her answer to his proposal, searching her face for that one little word.
Yes.
She was winding up to his door now, knocking without hesitation. It opened on Niklaus Mikaelson—the mysterious man in white, revealed. No awkward greetings or other social niceties, just him closing the distance by rushing to her and ravaging her with hot kisses, his hands not only on her waist but on her face, her neck, her breasts, her back. Lower and lower. Trailing a slow path to heaven. Tearing apart her dress to shreds now. Taking her as she stood there. Tumbling to the floor in a mess of clothes and hair and sweat, crying out against each other as they made love as only they knew how, tenderly violent and violently tender. Fire and ice. And she would wake up in his arms, a different woman. Somehow fuller, somehow a fragment of who she had been before him.
Caroline felt the color rise into her face. She knew that Klaus could hear her breathing quicken, her heart palpitate in her chest, and she violently suppressed the wave of passion inside her to regain what composure she had left. But she could just give in—and it would be so much easier. The fire had ignited her body, and she now screamed out against the restraints of her mind, almost winning, almost melding into him—
No.
She scoffed and diverted her gaze from his.
He grimaced and slackened his hold on her, which frustrated Caroline more than she let on. Of what consequence was he to her, after all? Her heart ached for him, nonetheless; it ached against her common sense—she wanted to undo her actions and dissolve the hurt in his light blue eyes. "You mark my words," he bit out. "A small town boy, a small town life. It won't be enough for you."
Wouldn't it?
But Caroline knew it never would.