Desiree moves with the fluidity of wine in his glass. He abandoned it though, before going to the dance floor. Took one long sip, then set it off on a tray. Dancing is serious business.
She is in his arms and she isn't, now teasing with the easy sweep of her hip, now arching back her head so her slender throat is in his view, circled by polished stones. The startling blue next to gold and her skin is pharaonic in its glory, but alive with blood of today.
What did Villarreal call her? A smart cookie? No, a bright young lady, that's what he called her. Someone probably called his mom that, when dad and she met for the first time.
Desiree only proves the Chief right as the minutes run by. She doesn't speak, but how she dances! How she dances!
Harris forgets his skipped dinner. The lightness jittering his body into motion is more pleasant than full stomach. Music and the smile on the woman's lips draws him to a place outside of reality. Her neck doesn't bring swans to his mind, but the bend of arms does. He's not tethered by it, but he's hooked.
He reaches for another glass of wine as they sway next to the bar, but she stops his hand.
"I'm hot and tired," Desiree says. "Take me home."
He brushes the cut-out on her back, feeling smooth skin. It's warm, alright, but there's not a single drop of sweat. Not even dampness.
"You're lying," he whispers into her springy braids. He's a little drunk, yes. His body is broiling with restless energy only partially used up by an hour of dancing. "You're lying through your teeth, Des, and I don't care!"
She tosses her head back to laugh. "Oh, you're progressing nicely along the rebound curve, Harris Sarkisian!"
"Hah! I'm the King of the Curve!"
There's absolutely no need to search for clues or hidden intents with Desiree. What you see is what you get.
She wants him to take her home and she says so. And simple logic dictates that two plus two equals four happy people, if he leaves with Desiree. If he gives up surveying the crowd for that little black dress. The one of a kind garment in the sea of the LBDs, the one with wings.
Harris looks straight ahead while he walks out of the ballroom. Only once at the huge wooden doors, he glances back.
The dancers shimmer. In their swirl, he would be a fool to expect to pick Ablaze out. Emptiness tugs at his heart nonetheless. Stupid, because nothing can be be done even if he spotted her.
He places his hand on Desiree's back and doesn't dawdle any more. They came to the ball together. They're leaving together, same as planned.
The vibe between them changes though after they climb into his truck. The two-seater cabin fills with imperceptible substance. Hot and sticky like phantom smoke, it clings to his skin. It plugs his lungs. It makes the cabin shrink while he drives Desiree home. Sex already glues them together.
Even when he hops out of the truck to open the car door for her, the sensation doesn't melt away. If anything, it grows more potent the moment he takes her hand. Then, it's off the charts when she grinds into him while unlocking the door. He puts his hands onto her hips to press him closer to him.
The second the door bangs closed, he slides her full skirts up to her waist. Two layers of chiffon... they could be three or five or ten, and it won't make a difference. They are weightless. They are silky, but not as silky as the skin of her thighs. He bites into her mouth. She rolls from toe to heel, gyrating against the wall. Her fingers expertly jerk the buttons of his jacket out of their loops.
YOU ARE READING
Ablaze
Mystery / Thriller||Love Triangle between a Firefighter, an Arsonist and an Heiress ♡|| Deeply wounded by his mother's betrayal, Harris, a Milwaukee firefighter, doesn't accept human failings, including his own. That's until he saves a redhead from a burning hotel...
