Unconsciously, her hand flew towards his, but they were no longer in the
room. They were back on the dance floor, hands clasped before them.
Before Nini had a chance to recover, the word Passion resounded around her,
and the Argentinean tightened his hold as he guided her lithe form in a
dizzying spin, ending in a close embrace.
Eyes closed, she allowed herself to slip back into history, fearing what would come next from the man holding her.
She had long since regained her balance, but his hold on her refused to loosen. Turning nimbly to face him, she put on her working face and said cheekily, "Much obliged for the rescue sir, but I should really get back out there now." Expecting him to let go, she moved confidently toward the door. However, she was irritated to find his grip tight as ever.
Leaning down ever so slightly, he whispered in her ear, "You are a beautiful woman. I love sex." She grinned wearily at the clichéd compliment, and managed to twist skillfully out of his grasp. The puff of breath she had smelt was proof enough that he had managed to hit the bar after all, and was in fact drunk. It seemed to be a constant affliction for many of the patrons, she mused sardonically.
As she neared the door, she realized there were no sounds of pursuit and looked back toward the man. He looked so helpless, standing where she had left him, still dumbfounded, waiting for her to return. She gave him a small, sympathetic smile, and muttered, "You couldn't afford me," before returning to the dance floor.
It was nearly a week before they met again, just after Satine's fall, the night she met with the Duke. Apparently it had gone well, for Zidler had proclaimed to one and all that the Moulin Rough was to be transformed into a theatre. Word spread quickly, and before long a celebration party was planned atop a nearby building. Mad gatherings free of customers were rare treats, and therefore not things to be missed. The evening found Nini sprawled on the floor near the roofs edge, bottle of absinth in hand, laughing hysterically at Chocolat's latest quip.
Turning to get a better look at her fellow revelers, she caught sight of a vaguely familiar form. It was that man, the narcoleptic from the other night. Leaned against a wall, he stared seductively at a woman in a soot gray ensemble, whispering sweet nothings in her ear. The woman gave a drunken laugh and walked to join her beckoning friends. Nini rolled her eyes, thinking 'He probably used that tired old line again,' then decided to have a bit of fun.
"Don't worry sir, you'll get the next one, I'm sure of it," she said, slinking one arm around his neck and giving him a reassuring nod. Looking down at her, a grin crept over his face. In one swift movement, he bent down and swept her into his arms.
"I think you're right," he growled, heading down into the depths of the hotel toward his room. Perhaps it was a whim, or possibly the numerous drinks she had come across recently, but she didn't struggle or yell. Instead, she lounged in his arms and let herself be carried away into the night.
Eyes closed, she allowed herself to slip back into history, fearing what would come next from the man holding her.
She had long since regained her balance, but his hold on her refused to loosen. Turning nimbly to face him, she put on her working face and said cheekily, "Much obliged for the rescue sir, but I should really get back out there now." Expecting him to let go, she moved confidently toward the door. However, she was irritated to find his grip tight as ever.
Leaning down ever so slightly, he whispered in her ear, "You are a beautiful woman. I love sex." She grinned wearily at the clichéd compliment, and managed to twist skillfully out of his grasp. The puff of breath she had smelt was proof enough that he had managed to hit the bar after all, and was in fact drunk. It seemed to be a constant affliction for many of the patrons, she mused sardonically.
As she neared the door, she realized there were no sounds of pursuit and looked back toward the man. He looked so helpless, standing where she had left him, still dumbfounded, waiting for her to return. She gave him a small, sympathetic smile, and muttered, "You couldn't afford me," before returning to the dance floor.
It was nearly a week before they met again, just after Satine's fall, the night she met with the Duke. Apparently it had gone well, for Zidler had proclaimed to one and all that the Moulin Rough was to be transformed into a theatre. Word spread quickly, and before long a celebration party was planned atop a nearby building. Mad gatherings free of customers were rare treats, and therefore not things to be missed. The evening found Nini sprawled on the floor near the roofs edge, bottle of absinth in hand, laughing hysterically at Chocolat's latest quip.
Turning to get a better look at her fellow revelers, she caught sight of a vaguely familiar form. It was that man, the narcoleptic from the other night. Leaned against a wall, he stared seductively at a woman in a soot gray ensemble, whispering sweet nothings in her ear. The woman gave a drunken laugh and walked to join her beckoning friends. Nini rolled her eyes, thinking 'He probably used that tired old line again,' then decided to have a bit of fun.
"Don't worry sir, you'll get the next one, I'm sure of it," she said, slinking one arm around his neck and giving him a reassuring nod. Looking down at her, a grin crept over his face. In one swift movement, he bent down and swept her into his arms.
"I think you're right," he growled, heading down into the depths of the hotel toward his room. Perhaps it was a whim, or possibly the numerous drinks she had come across recently, but she didn't struggle or yell. Instead, she lounged in his arms and let herself be carried away into the night.
