A/N: This one is the continuation of "Do You Tango?" #64 and sort of an intermediate piece to the next chapter, which I am very fond of. Reviews are highly valued and anticipated! :)
You are sitting on your li-lo, finishing the pack of Jammy Dodgers, when your phone rings. Thea, your best friend and the most mental lingerie salesperson there is in this hemisphere, is yelling into your ear, "Is Thorington a tall hunk with a ponytail, an arse to die for and supposedly a harem of wifelets in the guest cottages around his parents' mansion?"
"Are you reading gossip online again, Thea? And hello to you by the way."
"Shut up, Wren. And yes, I am doing research on your dance partner." You groan. You really shouldn't have told her anything. "And there are photos, my friend… And what do you think I have to say to you?"
"I bet it is something about his thoughtful eyes or generous charity work."
"You are a massive idiot, Wren, that's what I have to say to you! A daft, daft bird! The bloke wanted to take you for a drink, obviously it would end with proper knobbing, and God help me, Wren, you need it."
"Well, you weren't there, Thea. I get it you are all for using men like dildos attached to your favourite buttocks, and forgetting them the next morning, but even after such nonchalant shag I'd still feel like he used me like a tissue. Beside God knows how many other tissues he had used that week. Yuck." You pop the last biscuit into your mouth and crunch.
"Wrennie, who cares that he is a wolf? You need a shag, he is good at it, and there will be none of that manky whining in the morning!" She starts imitating a masculine yet annoyingly soppy voice. "Am I going to see you again, Thea? Was it good for you, Thea?" And then she adds in her normal voice, "Pillocks." You laugh and consequently choke on the Jammy Dodger.
"Thea, you know I'm not good at it. I'd either freak out in the morning and it'd be endlessly awkward, or even freak out in the middle of a shag, when his hand would be in my knickers or something, and I'd never hear the end of it. And we work together, sort of, he is in a different division. And I think he'd be wagging about it all over the force. Imagine if I embarrass myself in bed and then every copper in the city learns about it. Did I tell you how he yelled to me that it'd be easier for me to ogle his chest if he weren't wearing a shirt?"
"And were you ogling his chest?"
"You have the photos in front of you, Thea. What do you think?"
XXX
Out of all your mental relatives you keep in touch only with your great aunt, Muriel. She is batty, but you prefer the term eccentric, after all, let's face it, you yourself aren't the acest of the heiresses of toff families here. You never go to any of her famous dos, there is always a chance to meet some of your close kin, and fuck no to that. This year you are attending her birthday celebration though, she is 70, and you owe her those few sane moments you had in your childhood. It is also a costume party, and it's 1920s. The Roaring Twenties, and you look fit as fuck in a flapper dress. You have the right body shape, that of an ice cream stick, no tits, and you are ickle. You have the dress, it's vintage, champagne colour and glittery, and a hell of a headband, ivory, peacock feather. As they used to say in those glorious years, cat's meow!
And besides tango, that you are not dancing again any time soon, you are brill at charleston. It has always been your favourite dance. Just something about those quick steps, stuck out fingers, the click of your heels, and hotsy-totsy indeed! OK, maybe you should cut down on the slang a bit.
The party is ace. It's very Great Gatsby, Aunt Muriel is filthy rich, and she obviously decided to have all the bloody fun in the world in one night. The Bentley rotating at the center of the dance floor is especially posh! It's even 6.5 litre, and you are standing admiring it when the voice you least want to hear right now purrs behind you.
"Evening, Leary. Ogling the breezer?" Fuck, he looks good. A dark stripy three piece suit, brown shoes, extra tall collar, bugger, not again, white shirt, a dotted tie. Pretty much Redford in Gatsby but you never liked blondes. His dark hair is in a ponytail, but the front is styled just right. Pretty much what you did. Flapper or not, you couldn't cut off your mane for a bob, so you just pinned it at the back and left just the perfect wave above your face. He is so smug that you immediately go into defensive mode. Gee, by your age a chick should really learn to stay cool in front of wankers like him.
"Evening, Detective."
"Why all the formalities, doll?" Oh, you hate him so much right now. Especially the sexy like fuck lopsided smirk. He wants slang? He'll get slang.
"Dry up, bimbo." You turn on your heels and march from him. Your triumph is slightly arsed up by his chuffed chuckling behind you.
XXX
Obviously you end up dancing together. The very first charleston that pops up is for the two of you. Since most of those present at the party know you two, when he leads you on the dance floor, everyone else moves away, and Aunt Muriel happily laughs and claps her hands.
You have two choices, one is to be a Billy no-mates and do some half-arsed wiggles, or you can enjoy the fact that a fit six feet four bloke who can throw you across the room with one arm is dancing with you. And you are not daft! You give him the very tips of your fingers, and the two of you hit it!
And yes, you love the slang, and dancing with Thorington is bee's knees! He is surprisingly light on his feet for a hench bloke of his size, he is jumping as if there is trampoline underneath him at all times, his movements are endlessly precise, and then again, you can trust him with your body! Not in that way, gee, but as in pick up, throw and catch. The kicks, the flappers, the Johnny's drop and the Freezes! Oh yeah!
Something you understood last time you danced together, he has an amazing intuition when it comes to his partner. And you are totally not bloody wondering if he clicks like that with all chicks! But he seems to always know where you are heading, and then he flips you and plays on your moves, and makes you look so much better! And he is not showing off. At some point he steps back, and that's your solo time, and your fingers are sticking out from your body just the right way, and damn, you know he is behind you, he is so damn hot, and then his hands lie on your waist, and you greet him with a smile over your shoulder. He falls on his back in a perfect round move, you are on top, he flips you, and then you are holding his hands in yours and are supposed to help him to get up from lying on his back into a standing position, and seriously you didn't even do anything, and he is like Jack-in-a-box. Damn, you are so not thinking about all this stamina and muscles properly applied between the sheets. Bugger. You two do tandem savoy kicks, your favourite, the tips of your fingers gently held between his, and then he lunges ahead, wraps his arm around your back from behind and swirls you around his body. You feel like chocolate syrup being poured around a sundae in a septic cafe, and you start shaking.
He steps back, you do a handstand in front of him, he bends down a bit, what a considerate wanker, your legs lie on his shoulders, he picks you up, you repeat the Chocolate Syrup, and yes, that's how you are now calling this slithering around his body, as if you are licking him with every inch of your skin, and eventually he picks you up bridal style and starts swirling. And that's when you realize he is not dancing anymore, although the music is still going, he is just swirling with you in his arms, and you freak out, push away from him, and after an almost unnoticeable pause he lets you go down. And the song stops. People are clapping and cheering, and you are so bend out of shape at the moment, so after the appropriate time of bowing and smiling you rush to the nearest table and topple a flute of champagne into your empty stomach. The effect is devastating. The ball room immediately looks like Gary Glitter's best stage jacket, and you lean back at the edge of the table.
"And I thought you don't drink, Leary." You don't turn to his voice and wait for the real bladderedness to kick in. The sheer fact that you have just invented the word bladderedness is an alarming symptom. He chuckles and leans at the same table, his shoulder almost touching yours, and takes a sip from his flute. "Do you even know why you are pissed off at me?"
"You are a wanker." Repeat after yourself, Wrennie my girl, he is a wanker, he is a wanker, it is just hormones, you just want to shag him until he falls back into the sheets, weak and trembling, with a grateful smile of his lips. Wow, no more champagne for this one. That was way too graphic. Your mind deftly shoves a much more graphic picture into your inner vision, of him standing at a wall in the same relaxed pose he is in right now, sipping his fizz, and you are on your knees in front of him… Shush, fanny, let's go home. There is our good old buzzing friend waiting for us in a bedside table, and we won't even need any fanfiction tonight.
"That I am," he agrees in a warm velvet voice, and you imagine licking his neck. Abort mission, abort mission! He suddenly turns, and his face is right in front of you. You can see the crow's feet and the thick black lashes. "And after that night with tango twice as often as before." You blink. Did he just?... Did you understand?... What…? "Go home, Leary, you are drunk." Here we go, here is the good old cold wanker tone, but it's not working anymore. Not after your body was pressed into his again, and you know how he smells. You are industriously trying to form a proper sentence in your head that would delegate the idea that you decided that the two of you need to shag. Like right now. And then he grabs you under your arm and drags you outside. You two are followed by a few wolf whistles, and on his way he shortly apologizes to Aunt Muriel. She smiles like a cat that got the cream. And a wee bit of milk, cheese, sour cream, yogurt, kefir and greek yogurt. Outside he whistles, a cab stops, and he gently deposits you inside. He is not getting in, and you are staring at him. He leans into the open door and smiles.
"Promise me we'll dance again, Leary." His voice drops even lower, and there is something in his tone that makes you nod weakly. He nods too and smacks the door closed. You lower the window, and he leans again.
"Can I have a goodnight kiss?" Your tone is innocent, but you are tired of fighting with yourself. He brushes his lips to yours, and in your head it's the Fourth of July you once saw in Washington when on an exchange in uni.
"Night, Leary. Remember, that's not the last dance." He shoves some bills to the cabbie, and the car starts moving. You turn around and watch his wide back disappear inside the mansion.