They usually didn't slow dance. They preferred the cat and mouse of tango, always pushing away and pulling each other close, coy and aggressive and playful and wicked all at once. But that evening they swayed back and forth in each other's arms.
Perhaps it'd been the pesto Bakura made, all basil and garlic and aphrodisiac-magic, or it could have been the bottle of wine they'd drank with the meal. Regardless of the reason, they found themselves brushing their cheeks together and holding one another's hips as they slid across the carpet in the living room.
Songs faded and new songs began, one after another. They ignored the world of busy traffic and people in favor of the smaller, superior universe created by the space of their enclosed bodies. Bakura slipped one of his hands under Marik's shirt and circled his fingers against the small of Marik's back. Marik's hands found their way from Bakura's hips to his ass. In no hurry, still dancing, they started shifting their way towards to hallway that lead into the bedroom.