Heart Beat

Sweat..

She slipped in the door and stood at the back. Today of all days traffic had been terrible. She was almost thirty minutes late. Already the atmosphere was electric, the lighting, low and ominous adding to the mood. The heavy rock music pounded out through the speakers. So intense, she could feel it in her chest from where she stood, almost twenty feet away. She couldn't take her eyes off him. From the moment he'd appeared, tall, dark and dangerously handsome, he'd seemed like someone she knew from a dream. He was magnetic. He was sensuously raw, he was... oh dear God what WAS he? She knew she was virtually panting, but she didn't care. This was like nothing she'd seen before. He was amazing and she wanted him. Her body wanted him. Now.

He sat in the spotlight, his dark hair sticking to his sweat laden, muscled strained, beautiful neck. A neck she wanted to feel under her lips. Like a modern day Michelangelo's David, he turned, every sinew straining with his movements.

His black v necked t-shirt, dangerously low in the front, exposed more than a hint of chest hair. Hair that like that on his head, like his alabaster skin, glistened with sweat. His brow, furrowed with concentration, beaded with the sweat she longed to be able to wipe if only to touch him.

He threw everything into the performance, living every moment. As he moved, setting the intoxicating beat, the black leather biker jacket seemed soft as butter but harder than steel, like the steel of his forearms. Forearms she would sell her soul to feel around her. What she could see of them, the veins popped with effort as he held the sticks. The black leather gloves, encasing those long elegant hands; the hands she now longed to caress her aching body. Hands that could reduce a crowd - reduce her - to a snivelling, groaning, crying mess.

He was The Drummer. The orchestrator of her downfall, the object of her every dark, and until that moment unknown, desire. The man who sat at the back, pulling everything together. Everything but her sanity.

Lost in the moment, he looked down, then as someone beside her shouted his name, he looked up , tossing the raven hair back. The highlights on his chiselled cheekbones made her knees turn to jelly, her inside ignite. He scowled, his eyes blazing and at that moment, she was lost. In a writhing seething fantasy. Sweat and leather and heavy metal. And something else. Pure unadulterated lust.

A camera flashed and he looked at it, again it flashed, again he looked. She wished he would look at her like that. Like something he wanted to devour whole. The thought of his mouth touching her in any way made her almost collapse. She felt herself sinking into a haze of wanton desire.

As the flash of the camera stopped, she heard a name. Her name.

"Angie?" questioning.

"ANGIE!" louder.

"ANGELA - ARE YOU WITH US?" Startled, she looked round to see Simon staring at her, grinning insanely, the music gone and the lights coming up.

"If you're quite finished mooning around, could you get poor Tom a towel and a drink please? We have lots to do and not a lot of time to do it in." Simon chuckled and walked away to reset his equipment. Photographic shoots were time consuming and expensive, even for the big companies. Time, as they said, was money. Time, in this case, being very apt.

She looked up and there, standing in front of her, the drummer from her fantasy made real. He smiled, removing one of the hallowed black leather gloves. He tucked it into the back pocket of his jeans and it took her all her concentration not to moan slightly as his t-shirt stretched tightly against his now damp abs.

Holding out his hand and reaching to kiss her stunned cheek, he said "Hello darling. So good to see you. Don't think you were here when I arrived, I'm Tom, Tom Hiddleston, pleased to finally meet you in person."