Because the tango is hot.
For all her patience and the countless moves she had memorized, she could never quite catch her breath.
But maybe it served her right (slightly ragged inhales), since this was the last place she should have been. Particularly now.
The end of this week had been less than satisfactory. There was a mess left to clean up and a high-ranking official to replace. (And it fell on her shoulders, now. They wouldn't bear the weight of her own mistakes.) Konishi tied to remember (mid-step) why she had ever agreed to this tonight. Tonight, when she should be making arrangements, giving orders and wearing herself down, correcting the minor catastrophe she failed to foresee. (Her calculating mind, always a bit off.) It was what she had planned to do. It was exactly what she was thinking of as she sat in her office at headquarters, already exhausted in the fading summer heat. (It must have shown. Tiny lines at the corners of her mouth and between her brows.)
But Kitaniji had lulled her with the quirk of his lips and his smooth, smooth voice. (Like ripples. Reverberating.) The explicit touch to her shoulder and his quiet suggestion that seemed too ridiculous, too frivolous to even consider, especially now – but he wouldn't take no for an answer. Wouldn't hear a single argument. ("You should relax, Konishi.")
And for the world, she couldn't bring herself to reject it. (For him, she never could.)
Low, low lights and foreign music. Violins and bandoneón and their outstretched arms, fingers tangled at the end of their odd arrangement. Their movements mirrored and tentative, bending and twisting and abruptly stopping. Limbs colliding. Exhales. The weight of his hand on her waist (firm and delicate and fleeting) gently urging her body to move. And his lips stretched and upturned, just slightly.
(Steps and touches.) She had left her glasses at home, forgotten on the dresser in her bedroom. Her hair – coming undone with each step – pinned loosely at the nape of her neck. She makes a point of doing it every time, so he can see her eyes on him, so he can memorize their shape and color without obstruction. (Unmasked and vicious.) So she can watch the effects unfold across his mouth and forehead. Only for him, and he knows it. He almost laughs as they switch directions, but manages to keep down, in the end.
But he still hadn't taken off those damned sunglasses. He always did it on purpose, and she was always the one to take them off. It was infuriating, that he wouldn't let her see. (Eyes narrow as they glide to a sharp stop. Hands sliding across her back, lower lower lower, following curves and resting hard on her hips. Her own, trickling down his stomach. The slightest tremor working its way up her spine.)
But his unfortunate habit also had certain merits, in the end.
(Arms shoot outward and their feet pick up the pace again.)
"I'm amazed you found the time to come, Konishi, with your schedule as it is." And his lips curved, just a little more.
(She had anticipated it. The bitter honorific, drawn out and deliberate. How many times, now?)
She corrects him ("It's Mitsuki, sir,") and lets her ankle graze the back of his knee. A sharp stop, and two sharp inhales. (Her pale, pale leg bent and exposed. Careful and cautious.) Faster.
Twist and twist and twist and stop. Her back to him, arms across her stomach and breasts. Neck bent sideways and back arching into him. One hand clamped on her hip, the other at her shoulder, and Konishi can hear the smirk in his words. "Only after hours, though, isn't it?" Says it into her neck, and she feels the vibrations travel into her skin and settle there. Ghost sensations of lips at her jaw bone. She closes her eyes and almost feels the blood surge through her veins--
She pries his hand from her shoulder and twists away, pausing. She bends her fingers around his hand. (one two three four) Smooth and crisp and hypnotic.
She wraps her remaining digits around his arm and digs long, smooth nails in. (Bidding him to move.) And their bodies shift again. Stepping in unison with their brief, light movements. Almost silent. Almost.
"I would hate for this to interfere with our positions, Megumi."
The music is louder, demanding, and they pick up their pace to match its insistent tempo. Backwards, and turning and stepping and closer. A mess of arms and legs and skin and fingertips (connected and fluid). And her eyes on his, (still covered, still opaque) always. The hair near his forehead, so slightly damp. (She could feel heat on her own face and chest, steadily accumulating.) She spins and spins and spins and he catches her. Pulls her back in, harshly. Bodies pressed against one another and she drapes her leg around his thighs. Still.
(Her breathing is labored, but controlled. Her heartbeat rises and rises as her chest constricts with the need for air and something else entirely.)
Kitaniji holds her there, hand on her leg and arm around her shoulders, and lets his breath mingle with hers. Close. He can't catch his breath and there was no music for them now and God, she's so beautiful like this. Green, green eyes and dampened hair falling out of place. Chest rising, falling, rising, in time with his own, and her unguarded leg around him. Inviting and maddening and the thrill that runs through his entire body--
And he wants to tell her, now, what's been burning to get out for so long. He wants to touch that smooth porcelain face and kiss her breathless. But he won't let her see it. Not yet. He bids himself to keep it in and pushes the desire down for now.
A crooked smile, and an inhale: "You've gotten even better. Have you been practicing without me, Mitsuki?" Voice as effortless and tranquil as ever.
"You know better." Those damned sunglasses. (And she's still panting and her heart's still pounding, from exactly what she doesn't know, now--)
She kept staring. Intent and unforgiving and wide and so, so bright. He has never seen anything with eyes so excruciatingly vibrant. Her arms shift, and his hand lingers for a moment (unnecessary) on her thigh before he releases it completely. So she drags the same leg across his shins in response, before bringing it to rest on the ground again. Never taking her eyes off his own (still hidden). Something twists in his stomach and he swallows. (Her hands on his chest, now, and his own stationary at her sides. Unperturbed and waiting. Almost.)
Pauses. "Of course." (His hand travelling up up up.)
"You really should take the time to relax more often, Mitsuki." (Stops with his palm beneath her breast and quirks his lips. Barely discernible. But she catches it, this time.) "You're so much more… agreeable."
She laughs, low and blunt and much, much different than what he's grown so used to hearing, lately. Her hands move down down down, hard and provocative and her green green eyes.
"I suppose you would like that, Megumi?" She licks her lips and stops.
"It could be conducive to your work. And I know how you feel about that." (And he's actually glad she can't see his eyes. His voice betrays nothing, but his widened pupils--)
Konishi tilts her head back and lets the dull light bounce off her dampened skin, glistening in misplaced wisps of hair. Sees herself reflected in his glasses and smiles.
"If this makes it easier to sort out the mess we're in now, I'll have to take your advice."
(His hand reaching, low on her back again.) She hooks her elbow around his shoulder and lets her fingers graze the ends of his hair. Won't be long, now.
"But it seems to me that you find just as much benefit in this yourself."
A grin. "You never miss a beat, do you." Smooth and willful as his hand on her hip.
"You're too obvious."
And then her hands are at the sides of his face, pulling his sunglasses down his nose and over his ears and off. Finally sees the eyes she's felt all night. Palpable and demanding and dark and her hitched inhale, stifled.
He leans down and his lips (parted now) find hers. Soft and warm and wet and their wandering fingertips. (A small, muted crash at their feet.) And they part, breathe, and words exhaled into his mouth –
"Leave them off, next time." Her fingers grasping and her lips insistent, and he smiles as he closes his mouth around her sentence and pushes his tongue in as response. And he actually thinks, for a moment, of following her halfhearted command. She could be so obstinate, when she wanted something. (But that carefully guarded impatience was part of her charm. Something that only ever surfaced for him.) And he would miss that perfect expression on her face when she finally got what she wanted. (What they both ached for.)
As she guides him out of the room with her eyes still shut, he lets her think she's won, for now. And as the door shuts behind them (the familiar, creaky click), and her lips find a particularly smooth spot of skin just below his pulse (completely without restraint now), she smiles, and knows. She loves him like this.
Always has.