She lead him to dance and was contested with panicked hesitation.
His caution was criminal. No man before him had been disinclined to ballroom, or bedroom.
She pouts.
"I don't mean to offend," he tries. "-You, nor the king…no, especially not him…Perhaps…perhaps another time?"
…Time, she thinks, will be the exigency.
Seduction, under any other circumstance, would be a solution. Implore enticingly, and any man would surely be lead.
"But I'm…a Timelord," he justifies. "…Not a man."
He is more than reluctant. She reassesses. He must tempt himself before she is allowed to.
He reconfigures and considers, sitting uncomfortably in a corner with his feet on a chair and his knees to his chin.
"…The waltz is only a decade old…" he remarks. "I doubt they've worked the kinks out yet… And, Baroque is boring, wouldn't you agree? S'il vous plaît, je ne veux pas de danse. We'd be testing romance and Regency. Dance isn't ours to define. Not here…not…yet,"
Poised, she circles, fingers her bodice. She sways, he sways, but he is not swayed, "…Not…not now." A cold sweat breaks across his brow, and he stares her down with guilty eyes.
First pass minutes of superficial contemplation.
He stands abruptly and paces, watching his feet with intense concentration; fidgets, indecisively stealing glances across the room to see if she is any less clothed. He admonishes himself, closes his eyes, whines a little, aloud.
She overhears and he argues with his conscience as she backs him into a bedroom.
"Ah, well fancy that- la chambre du roi…oh, this is…this is- it's- what a handsome room! Is that ivory on the cabinets? Who's your ebéniste? Do you have any idea how much that'd go for in an antiquity auction? You wouldn't mind if I just, ah, toured a bit, would you?"
"Let me give you a tour," she suggests. "C'est le lit."
"I see that," he smiles slyly, shyly down at her as she loosens his tie.
Shaking his head, he takes her hands and holds them against his chest. "My hearts, listen-" his voice cracks.
She takes his hands and holds them against her chest.
He is cornered, flailing and falling as the backs of his knees hit the edge of the bed. "Reinette," he objects. "Ce n'est pas sage." He bucks and she straddles, but he catches himself, spread-eagled, determined not to wrinkle the duvet.
He keeps distance between them by force of sheer willpower.
"You're trembling," she notices, but he does not seem to. "…Doctor?"
"Reinette-" he manages, before his cheeks hollow and his eyes burn and something inside him snaps.
She is familiar with lust, but this is not. With practice she has learned to tame debauchery- the composure of a courtesan. But when he quakes beneath her- grabbing her suddenly, violently- and forcibly holds her down, she cries out because she is terrified of the desire she sees in his eyes; animal and visceral. He is not human.
"Doctor!" She shrieks as he tears at her corset, both of them aching for breath. He grinds their hips together, desperate, vicious, yanking her on top of him. "Doctor! Stop! Please!"
She grabs his shoulders until her knuckles turn white and he shudders. She digs her nails into his neck to stop him from moaning. He chokes; stifles a yelp, places his hands on each side of her face.
…Time stops.
…He stops. He inhales.
She squeezes her eyes shut, afraid he will snap her neck. He slowly moves his fingers to her temples. Petrified, she hasn't the sense to close her mind. Their hearts thunder. His chest heaves. He closes his eyes and she exhales.
…There is at first emptiness. Nothingness. The bedroom is silent and so is his mind.
Silence turns to solitude; solitude to longing.
Awake, alone.
Arousal and instinct. Need, yearning, fear, and finally, love.
'I'm sorry' he says, at last, 'It's…been a while since I've danced… Would you mind leading this one?'