Shelter In Your Love (Beatles Fan Fiction)

33. Don't Ever Change

You never wear a stitch of lace, Your powder's never on your face,
You're always wearing jeans except on Sunday
So please don't ever change
Now don't you ever change
I kinda like you just the way you are

George is good at this. Really good. Who knew? I would never have suspected he could do this, and with such skill.

I wasn't sure at first, I didn't think I would like it, but I'm enjoying myself. It's fun and easy with George. He's experienced, I can tell, he takes the lead and I trust him, let him direct me, move me however he wants.

This is not something I'd usually do, not even with Ricky. We didn't even do it on our wedding night, although I think Ricky would have been too drunk that night to attempt anything like this. It's not something he'd like anyway.

George turns me away from him sharply and then brings me back to him, swift, one fluid movement. I nearly fall into him, my hand ending up flat on his chest, but he catches me neatly, his eyes on me, sparkling, amused, laughing at my clumsiness.

'Who taught you to do this?' I ask him, a little breathless.

George just smiles enigmatically. 'I'm not telling you.'

He moves his hand further down my side, resting it lower on my hip. His other hand grips mine, firm, tight but gentle, reassuring. He pulls me in closer to him and my breath catches, our faces just inches apart, close enough to kiss. I can't help but look at his mouth, the soft curve of his lips, pink, full, slightly parted.

Before I can get too comfortable, George repeats the movement. I'm ready for it this time. When he turns me around and then pulls me back into him, my hand lands in the right place, on his shoulder, and he laughs softly as I grin at him, triumphant.

As the music swells to the finale, George spins me around one last time, catching me and bending me backwards to finish, ostentatiously, making me laugh. I screw my eyes shut, dizzy. The music ends and I open my eyes, still leaning back. I can see Maurice standing just behind us, at the edge of the dance floor, disapproval on his upside down face.

George pulls me back up, still keeping hold of me as Maurice steps forward.

'Where did you learn to dance like that?' I ask him. 'You're very good.'

George laughs. 'You're not all that bad yourself.'

'Hannah, do you think you can tear yourself away for a moment, so we can get this picture done?' Maurice interrupts, annoyance tainting his voice. He smiles, falsely, at George, but if George notices, he doesn't react. He offers my hand to Maurice and Maurice takes it, huffing, tugging me towards the hall where the other three girls wait. I cast a look back at George over my shoulder. He's laughing.

'Where have you been?' Bet asks, as I join the other girls in front of the floor length burgundy velvet curtains, which sweep the entirety of the reception area of the house.

House. This is a house. It's enormous, it's more like a palace than a house. Even in here, there are white marbled floor tiles, gold ornate door handles, glass chandelier light fittings. I suppose this is the sort of home you have when you're the president of a record company. Not our record company though. I think the president of our record company lives in a duplex somewhere in Manhattan.

This is the home of the president of Capital Records, the Beatles' label over here. The party is in honour of the Beatles and we're here as their guests, which would be awkward if it wasn't for the fact there are so many other people here. Quite a lot of famous people too. I've already seen Jane Fonda and Jack Benny, and I think I saw Rock Hudson earlier. We're just faces in the crowd.