They continue to bite and nuzzle her, soft yet unrelenting. She wants to lift out of her heels, lurch forward with the humming under her skin, the growing bubbles in her stomach. She clutches harder to Orhan, and she gasps in time with the music. Both men are still moving with the beat, while she stands perfectly still, only her head jerking a little as the sensations shift around in her as the bites and licks change speed or tempo.
When they both lift away, as if practiced for timing, her whole body is tingling. She sees Orhan’s smirk, feels Jeroen’s grip brace briefly, and all she can do is sigh, and feel her body almost sag between them.
They won’t let her do that on the dance floor. Instead, they turn her around, so she’s once more facing Jeroen.
Jerone’s hand come under her arms to brace her shoulders. “Let’s dance,” he says.
She nods, still unable to speak, and moves with him. Behind her, Orhan moves not as fast, but casually, stepping once for each of their two. He let’s go of a hip, and she wonders where his hand’s gone until she feels a tug at the skirt of her dress. She glances down her shoulder, and sees his fingers tracing the hem, curling up the underside, seeking out the space between material and skin. She grins, and briefly catches the glint in Orhan’s eye over her shoulder, and then lets him get on with it.
When the flat of his nails brushes her thigh, it is almost imperceptible. The smoothness of it, unlike the velvet softness of skin, is cool like glass. It would be almost comforting, but for being so delicate, it promises and teases, as if Orhan might decide another course for the evening.
Next: 51. Crease
Image found on flickr, by Devon D’Ewart, used under the Creative Commons License.