Slow-dancing

The music begins. He appears, in the guise of stranger, the illusion of innocence. A glance; hearts skip a beat and then; an outstretched hand.
Into the throng, the centre of the dimly-lit floor. Swallowed up amongst the colourful revellers, not noticed, unseen.
Swaying to the music, feet barely moving, glued to the spot, knees weak at the daring, delicious danger. Into the formal hold, tentative, in awe; arm around waist, cool hand enclosing hand.
Then, closer, body against body, thrilling to the touch. Smooth silk dress against fine wool jacket, scarlet nails against white cotton shirt.
Closer still, clinging to each other. Whispered promises, soft entreaties. Lips brush forehead, hands caress, with longing in every fingertip. Kisses cover wrists, words catch in throats; tears fall on soft cheeks.
The music hypnotises, intoxicating perfume mingles with the scent of desire. Strong fingers tenderly brush tendrils of hair from damp cheeks, then move down to gently lift a fair chin. A dark head bows to steal a single, forbidden kiss, as fairy lights twinkle and laughter spins around.
All too soon the music stops. The crowd applauds and disperses . With one, last, lingering look the couple part and go back to their separate tables, back to their own, private prisons, their own personal hell.

 

 

 

Reblogged from http://tearose.blog.co.uk

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About rosiewrites2

Growing old, disgracefully and enjoying every minute.
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