Let Her Go

Interlude I

The bass travels through the floor of the club and pulses up his legs, tripping along the vertebrae of his spine and spreading through his chest. He feels the vibrations in his teeth and his ears and every rattling breath that carries it in-and-out-and-in-and-out of his lungs.

The girl beside him is already swaying, sinking into the sensations and the sounds as though she can melt and become a part of it all. Her dress clings to every taut line of her body and her dark hair falls in a loose spill down her back. She makes his heart race in his chest until it's tuned into the bass, until he swears that every throbbing beat is carved into his bones, and the only thing keeping him grounded is the hot flush of sensation that spreads through their clasped hands.

She turns her cat's eyes to him and leans in so that he can hear her over the music. "What are we doing here, Jude?" Her words are almost snatched away, but he manages to read what he can't hear on her lips.

He crooks a smile and his hand slips around that slim waist, pulls her in so that her body is pressed length-wise against his. A small warning buzz runs along the nape of his neck, but more urgent is the warmth of her skin and the sweet scent of irises on the angles of those collarbones. "You wanted to dance, didn't you?" He presses the words into the hollow beneath her left ear and feels her tremble in his arms.

The tremble grows as she allows herself to laugh. The sound burns a path through his veins. "You don't dance."

Looking at her now, he can't fathom how that can be true. How can he look down into those eyes and feel the faint brush of those lips against his ear and the press of all that warm femininity against his body and not want to dance? "For tonight we can pretend I do."

She doesn't look convinced, and he has to fight the urge to lean in and kiss her, long and slow and so deep her eyes turn into green glass. "I'm not dressed for it," she says.

He skates his hands down along her ribs and past her waist until they come to a stop at her hips. He feels miles of smooth cloth pass beneath his fingertips in those seconds, and his blood surges hotter. His thumbs rub little circles into her hipbones and her breath catches. She's right, of course. She isn't dressed for it. Her outfit is sleek and sexy – the dress so form-fitting she may as well have been stitched into it, the heels high enough to put her eye-level with him. Their plans had been to go to dinner, but now he wants to see her dance. He wants to see the thrumming bass move through those long limbs, and he wants to feel it travel from her and into him. "You're dressed perfectly."

She raises an eyebrow at him and steps back, but he's already noticed the goosebumps on her skin, and he imagines that he can see them through her dress as they race over her hips and belly and breasts and across her shoulders and back. "Let's start with a drink."

He grins and follows her to the bar. He's happy enough to play by her rules for now, but he knows he'll get his way before the night is out.

They get to the bar where she orders and he pays. He isn't surprised that she knows his drink, or that she leans back against the bar with her arm pressed close to his. She's a physical person and he's found that she enjoys contact, the simple pleasure of touch that he's always taken for granted. He's certainly not taking it for granted tonight. Tonight he wants more than anything to oblige her, to lead her away and strip off that tight dress, to move over her and against her and to see her face flush, hear her voice fold around his name.

Oblivious to his thoughts, her eyes close and her lips tip up into a smile that softens every feature that her carefully applied makeup has dramatically emphasised. For a moment she seems so young. The warning buzz builds, but then she turns her head and looks straight at him. He wonders what she reads in his eyes to make her skin flush pink. Does she recognise his hunger? Does she know?

"Well?" He nudges her with his elbow. "Are you going to ask me?"

She blinks and shakes her head slightly. "Ask you what?"

"To dance, of course."

Harlow purses her lips and narrows her eyes. Then she drains her glass and sets it down oh-so-slowly. When she turns back to him he is sure his heart is racing so hard, so fast, that it's about to spill out of his chest. The devil is in her eyes. She's never looked at him like this before and the effect is devastating. The room grows smaller and he feels the electric current surge between them.

"You wanna dance?" The words roll out of her mouth easily and although he's the one who brought her here, who dared her to ask him, he doesn't want to dance anymore. Not the kind of dancing she's thinking about at any rate. He wants to drag her out of this place like a caveman; he wants to taste her skin and be as close to her as humanely possible.

He chokes back those thoughts, but the snap and crackle in her green eyes tells him that she's already seen them on his face. Her expression glazes for a moment, as though she can't stop herself from thinking ahead either, and the pink flush comes back.

"I'd love to." His words are husky and her pupils dilate. This time the buzz is tempered by the rush of triumph. He knows he's won, just as surely as he knows that she is unaware of the game. He reaches a decision in the split second it takes her to dislodge the images that have taken root in her mind. "Trust me?"

Her response is exactly what he's hoping for: humour, with a touch of playfulness. "About as far as you could throw me." These are words she's been saying to him for years, ever since she was ten years old and slim as a whip, standing next to him beside a swimming pool on the hottest days of summer.

The buzz has spread from the nape of his neck and now vibrates along every inch of his skin. But he doesn't even notice it anymore. He's already played this scene forward a dozen times. He knows precisely where it ends.

He'll take her hand, lead her out to the dance floor. When she's ready in an hour or so they'll leave, go out to his car, and he'll open the door for her. He won't kiss her, won't even touch her. The drive will be silent, tense with anticipation. When they get back to his place he'll open the front door and lead her inside, up the stairs, into the bedroom. At last, he'll press his lips to hers. He'll go slow, so slow. He'll taste every eager shudder, feel every shiver. She'll wrap her arms around him and curl her fingers into his hair. And then, finally, he'll pull down the zipper of her dress so that she feels it against her spine. He'll let it fall to the floor and leave her standing in those heels, in the shimmering pool of her dress.

Jude flashes back to the nightclub and lets his eyes rove over that dress now. He's felt it, imagined getting her out of it, but he hasn't really seen it until this moment. Now that he has, his response is primitive enough to burn him up from the inside. It's the perfect shade of blood-red satin.