"Dance with me, Teresa?"
Her first name, whispered in reverence against the side of her head, invites something into their relationship. Something closer than friends, something more intimate. It's sensual and exciting and she feels overheated and unable to blame it on the champagne in her bloodstream. She's only taken two sips - something, he's bound to have noticed. But, his voice does more than the champagne ever could, slipping through her in wave of comfortable heat that warms and dizzies her. She tries to play it cool, even as her cheeks betray her with their stain of dark crimson.
He notices.
And, not just because he's Patrick Jane and he's paid to be observant. He notices because it's Teresa Lisbon and he sees everything that she encompasses, including the stunning vision presented to him this evening. He'd be stupid not to notice the deep plum of her dress, the way it illuminates her skin and lights up her eyes. He marvels at the way her hair curls around her face, frames her high cheekbones and soft jawline. The smoothness of her skin in that delicate curve where her neck slides into her shoulder and down her collarbone. The faint scent of cinnamon and something fresh, sweet, and all Teresa. He wants to dance with her, to see the music claim her, and feel the movement of her soft body under his hands. Feel the swing of her hips and watch her dress swish prettily around her legs when he twirls her. He wants to feel her, to smell her, to be enraptured in everything she is.
"Okay - no funny stuff." he's heard this warning before, at a high school reunion. Maybe then, when Red John was still a possibility, a threat to his being, he could have promised to save the funny stuff for a more appropriate time. But, tonight, he doesn't want to hold back. He won't make promises, he has no intention of keeping.
"I don't make empty promises, Teresa." her name rolls off of his tongue; feels good in his mouth and somewhere, down deep, where there are still chinks in his armor. Where the empty spots left from Red John's cruel mark on his life, had yet to be filled.
"I'm not asking you to, Patrick."
The way she says his name, so clean and sweet, ringing like bells sends him into a tailspin. Her dark curls spill over his shoulder, twisting against the fabric of his jacket and he catches the faintest hint of something citrusy but spicy, like oranges and clove. He's trapped, spellbound by her. The tigress has most definitely captured her prey, and if she'll say his name again, he'll succumb completely. He needs this, needs her, and he's never admitted to needing anything.
His fingers do their own waltz up her spine, grazing and tickling her bare skin, eliciting a sweet shudder from her. Her arms unconsciously tighten around his neck and she inhales, breathing in his scent. It's clean with the tang of white soap mixing deliciously with the hot muskiness of cologne that sends her thoughts astray. Evocative imagery of him - tie askew, jacket missing, shirt rumpled, and his pants sitting just low enough on his hips to tease- forces her to rein in her wandering thoughts. Even though, that five o'clock shadow, he conveniently forgot to shave only adds to eroticism of her fantasy. Of seeing his clean-cut look unravel beneath her hands, of seeing him succumb to something that is beyond intelligible thought and reason.
"And, here I thought nothing exciting could come out of a boring ol' fundraiser." blue-green eyes focus on something in something in the distance but his mouth brushes her ear, breath tickling the skin with its damp warmth.
"I thought you might finally behave yourself." his smirk widens into a broad grin. Rawr. Salacious Teresa has come out to play. Her teasing retorts usually have no effect but tonight, he can feel them buzzing down his spine and straight to a place where the physical manifestation of what exactly she's doing to him would be very obvious and very hard to hide. She wiggles slightly, moving her head against his shoulder until he swears he can feel her lips against his neck, and forces her hips against his.
"Tsk, tsk, Teresa." he clicks his tongue. "Where's the fun in that?"
"The fun comes later." Her ankle hooks around his, stiletto scraping him through his pants, stopping their slow waltz. He keeps them swaying with the rhythm of the crowd, even if they aren't moving around the dance floor. Keeps the attention off of them. The more attention they draw, the more uncomfortable she's likely to become. "Patience is its own reward."
"Baloney."
"Do you want to find out?" she unhooks her ankle and resumes the slow, careful waltz.
He eyes her skeptically - fair enough, she's doubted him plenty, but he should know her well enough to know that she cannot lie to save her life. She's challenging him, daring him to play her game, to see if his patience will be rewarded with anything worth his while. Okay. He's willing. Not entirely sure he can meet her challenge but he's going to give it a fair shot. She could be playing him, but if he beats her at her own game, she'll have no choice but to follow through with her reward. "Okay - let's play."
Her olive eyes dance with the promise of fulfillment, of completion, should he behave and her enticing grin only encourages him. He sets boundaries and forces a coldness into his attitude, knowing that if he's even the slightest bit warm, he'll overheat and that's when things will go downhill. He severs most of their physical connections, except for a light hand-hold and a polite hand on her waist. She's no longer enveloped in the subtle strength of his arms or free to nestle into his neck, shoulders tucked into his chest.
She misses it.
But, she wants to see how far he'll go before he's pushing down barriers and breaking the rules.
The last dance of the night - a sexy tango set to a steamy latin beat - threatens his boundaries and calculated moves in this wildly arousing chess game, she's initiated between them. Interfering knights and bishops have been sent on their merry way, obedient rooks Cho and Fischer ignore them on the sidelines, and the attendees of the fundraiser, the ones he's deemed as pawns, dance obliviously around them. All that's left is a dance between the king and queen. A play for power, for reward, for desperately sought release.
He dips, twirls, and leads her in a way that suggests a frosty chasm between them; detached and almost emotionless, even when his hips drove into hers and her spine arched over his hand. He pays it no mind, seemingly ignoring the all-systems-go sign she's practically smothering him with.
She's losing patience.
The song has barely drawn to a close before he's grabbed her arm and is marching her out without so much as a goodbye to Cho or Fischer. He presses her into the door of her SUV and his hands immediately seek out her hair, fingers knotting and twisting in the dark locks. He pushes against her, nudging and rubbing until he's satisfied, emitting an uncharacteristic and slightly feral growl of gratification. The night is over. He didn't press his luck, didn't do anything but schmooze and swindle the rich and famous into offering a fraction of their wealth. He's been a patient, well behaved man, given all that could have happened, or that usually happens when he's involved.
"Teresa," his voice is husky; rough with need. She looks a bit dazed, with slightly shallow breathing and dilated pupils, unable to think clearly with her arousal tuning her up so high. He can practically feel her pulse thrumming against him. His grin is as salacious as hers had been when he tilts his head and offers her two simple words. "I win."
Now, it's time to reap his reward.
And this, my sweethearts, is what happens when I listen to The Civil Wars' cover of 'Dance Me To The End of Love' when it's nearing midnight. I have no other explanation. Leave me some love, Dolls!
Love,
RobertDowneyJrLove