There's something about the way she grins at him as they dance that makes his throat dry. She'd teased him when they'd arrived – planet of the night club – and he could recall the small hop of excitement she gave when he'd revealed they'd finally landed in Space Vegas. And now he thinks he might regret it.

They've had too much to drink. It wasn't something he'd planned on, taking the first cup from her when she'd insisted. Of course they should have a little Cloxifor, what was the point of travelling if they didn't indulge in the local cuisine and he should have known the second it touched his lips – he shouldn't have swallowed it.

The juice burned soothingly down his throat and the effect was immediate, dances of colored lights began to pulse off her body with every movement and he couldn't take his eyes off her as she laughed and asked him to dance. Of course he could dance, he explained with a snort, and he supposed in a sense he could. But Clara, Clara was a different animal.

He'd started with an awkward swaying of his arms, but she'd finished her second drink as he finished his first, raising her hands to slide up his and bring them down. She guided him, nudging his feet with her own while grinning up at him and telling him on a whisper, "Follow my lead."

When had he not?

He moved slower, shifting his weight back and forth as she raised her own arms and began to dance for him, body circling in a calculated manor that sent chills down his spine. Fingers clenching, he reached for her, hand stopping her movements at her waist and she laughed. The Doctor never realized how much he loved to hear her laugh, especially when it dissolved into giggles, large eyes suddenly almost closed against the humor of the situation.

Now though, now she stared up at him, continuing to move her hips within his grasp, a purple spark to her left, a pink to her right, a glow of green and blue splashing off her legs. A red burst at her chest. He blinked against it and then moved closer, hand sliding around to her back, bringing her closer to him and he groaned, inaudible against the music that beat through the room, when she began to grind herself against him.

It's just a dance, he told himself.

But he knew that wasn't it. He'd danced before; he'd danced with other girls on other planets. It was Clara. It was that soft scene drifting up into his nostrils from her hair and the familiar feel of her body in his hand and when he dropped his head down and began to taste her neck, he felt his lower abdomen burn when he heard her release a small satisfied sigh.

It should have felt wrong, what he was doing; he should have known better, but he wanted it. He wanted her more than anything in the universe and he imagined, by the way her arms were now curling around him, fingers scraping at the back of his coat, that maybe she felt the same. The Doctor moved back when she pushed, parting the crowd unceremoniously and he found himself crashing into a wall roughly, hearing the laughter of a few women at his right, but he didn't care.

Her hands were in his hair and she was twisting his head, demanding his attention, and he slipped his lips over her jaw and then crushed them onto hers, tasting the liquor on her tongue, drinking her in. He lifted her, feeling her legs wrap around his midsection and he turned her, slamming her back into the wall and rubbing himself against her, growling in frustration into her because what he wanted was a few slips of fabric away from him.

Inching back, he stared down at the space between them, feeling her kisses at his forehead, and he shook his head, urging her back to the ground before he took a step away. She was holding his hands and then she wasn't, suddenly curling the edges of her fingers around the edge of his slacks and pulling him back towards her roughly, and he breathed, "No, we shouldn't."

"You want it," she responded darkly.

He nodded despite himself because he did. He'd wanted her for as long as he could remember. It was the hidden thought, pushed to the back of his mind. For every tight skirt, for every long stare, for every extra long hug and every smile that blurred the line from innocent to devious – making him question just what she'd been thinking – there was a fantasy he pushed aside.

But now she glowed. She throbbed with color and lust and she was beginning another dance, purposely exciting him as she grinned and when she ducked down, elbow grazing his arousal as she turned to press her back to him, continuing the dance she'd begun moments before, he surrendered. He felt his hearts hammering in his chest as he moved with her, eyes closed, and then he took hold of her, bringing her back up and shaking his head again.

"No," he huffed, but his heart wasn't in it, watching the way she shook her head at him.

Follow my lead.

She was still swinging slightly in his grasp to the rhythm of the music and he chanced to look around, confusion settling in as he realized she was the only person in color. The Doctor was able to take one second to question what they'd consumed before she ran her hands over his chest and then slipped them into his pants, giving him one good rub over as he squeezed his eyes shut and let his head fall back. He dropped his head forward and took hold of her hands, yanking them up and he shook his head, then grinned, a single thought on his mind.

Lead.

She pulled him back towards the entrance and they stumbled out into the cooler air in the street, an orchestra of different tunes following them as she searched for some place to hide and when she tugged him into an alleyway just off the road, he was too intoxicated to stop her. And some part of him wondered if it truly was the drink. He knew it, or at least he'd heard of it. He was capable of thought; capable of understanding he shouldn't be doing what he was doing, but he was incapable of stopping.

Was she?

"Do you see colors?" He asked as she fumbled with the button on his trousers. Clara hadn't answered and he pulled her up, "Clara, do you see colors?"

With a shake of her head, she replied, "Not that drunk, Doc… colors?" She took a step back, but he moved forward, pressing her into the opposite wall, "Are you drunk?" He breathed against her face, watching her consider him before she swallowed and nodded, "Maybe this was a bad…"

"No," he told her. "I want this."

And she stared, mind working over thoughts until she frowned and said, "No, not like this."

"Clara, you don't understand," he bent slightly to explain, "I want this."

Tilting her head, she told him warily, "On my planet, in your condition, I'd be essentially raping you."

"I'm fully cognoscente," he told her, then added darkly, "I. Want. You."

She hesitated, but then he dropped his mouth to her collar, sucking hungrily at her skin and listening to the small sound of pleasure now escaping her. His hands drifted to her hips and rubbed at them before slipping under, tugging at her stockings until he felt them tearing under the pressure and for a moment she froze, forehead nudging against his as she asked, "Please tell me you're not drunk."

He spoke lowly into her ear in a whisper, "Cloxifor, think of it as a truth serum, and apparently – for a Time Lord – colors."

Clara began to respond, but he tucked one finger around her knickers and slid it over her and his eyes closed shut against the feel of her body. He'd had dreams about her, about them, and he'd told himself it was nothing – natural reaction to a beautiful woman, but he knew the truth. She'd become his obsession. The thing he wanted most; the thing he told himself he couldn't have.

He drove one long digit into her and she cried out, squirming against him slightly as her lips began to test his earlobe, kissing their way down before she breathed hotly into it and he jerked, pulling his hand away and undoing his pants in a rush of movement that ended with him lifting her atop him, her back pinned to the wall behind her. The Doctor inhaled as she clung to his neck, giving him just enough leverage to guide himself back inside of her – this time with little hesitation – and he exhaled in ecstasy because for all the times he imagined what she would feel like, he never imagined it quite like this.

And it felt almost fitting, a secret tryst in a dark alleyway, marred slightly by the foreign substance tickling through their veins. He pressed one palm to the wall and held her bum firmly with the other, rocking up into her and reveling in the sound each thrust elicited. The small cries and gasps and the muffled moans against his shoulder until she grabbed his coat in her fists and the heels of her boots dug into his back. He almost fell over from the shudder her body gave around him, coaxing him to his own end and when he dropped to his knees, cradling her against him, he rested his head on hers.

He could hear her chuckle against him and he smiled knowing her mind was on the same puzzle as his – how does one categorize a relationship that looks like a lovely friendship on the surface, but they both now knew harbored sexual desire just underneath. Her mind was on the truth, understanding crawling into her thoughts. And he lifted his hands to bury in her hair, bringing her face up in his palms to study the perplexed look on her face, the one that questioned whether what they'd done had been ok and he smiled, admitting, "Been thinking about doing that for some time."

Clara nodded slowly, and offered, "Mutual."