Renate Scoble

He had the smile of a swashbuckler.  She had hoped all night that he would dance with her.  At last he came and they clicked like the opposite poles of a magnet.
“You are a good dancer I have been told,” he said.
“Oh – but a tango!  I have not danced those too often.”
They took their position.  He held her perhaps a bit too tightly, she thought;  she did not mind.  The band struck up.  At the sound of the first note he drew her even closer to himself.
They started dancing in tune with the staccato rhythm, swaying gently, turning abruptly.  She became aware of his body’s bonding, down from the arms to the taut muscles of his abdomen and thighs.  His long step invaded the space between her legs, exerting pressure.  A thrill ran up her spine. His hand in the hollow of her back slid slowly lower until it cupped her seat. 
Her focus changed from the insinuating tune of the tango to his very presence.  Every time she turned her head, she felt his hot breath fanning her face.  Pearls of sweat formed between her breasts.  Her erect nipples bored into his broad chest. 
Sway, turn, rub, pressure – she did not want it to stop.  They did not speak, only their eyes held a dialogue of mounting desire.  


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