Feb. 10, 2008

It was music, slow and sultry.
The beats touched her hips and the violin soared through her hair.
It was beautiful, mysterious, and just for him.
She had never heard the song before, but she felt it; he felt it from across the room.
She swayed with the drums and lifted her hands with the guitar solo. He couldn't resist her small waist, her tight skirt, the low cut shirt.
It was...it just was. No words came to him though naked did stike a chord.
A-flat, like the trumpet, to be precise.
She opened her eyes to see whether she had caught his attention.
"Mondo Bongo," sang the vocalist.
Oh definitely.
He stood up from his chair in the corner.
The room was dark, he was dark.
She was dark.
Tonight she was his, and he--
Oh, he was going to be hers.
He reached her and she faced him.
The music faded as her hands dropped to her side.
They looked at one another.
God she was beautiful.
No reason to be vacant.
She grabbed his belt loops and pulled him toward her.
He grabbed her soft waist as she lifted a leg to his thigh.
"Dance with me," she whispered in his ear.
Slow. Hot. Tight.
It was all he could do to remember that they were in a bar.
One dance and then they'd have to go.
But for now, he spun her to the new song.
She dipped to the smooth trumpet, and pressed into him with the bass.
His hands felt heavy on her.
She wanted him crushed on top of her.
The spanish band would not keep her satisfied for long.
This was the last dance.
This is the last dance.
Latino Carino to be precise.