It was simply impolite for a lady to confirm a man’s demeaning assumption, but that sparkle in her eye was hardly due to the crystal chandeliers above. She was quite amused. Though his acceptance only managed to create a faint lift on her ruby mouth.
Constance allowed herself to be led. It gave her the opportunity to quickly cast her gaze over the dancefloor and locate her target for the evening. Both Nolan and – oh, what was that silly girl’s name? Ah…– Penelope (Gods, no wonder she couldn’t remember the damn thing) were still modestly infatuated with one another. With that in mind, Constance gently tugged on her partner’s hand to request his attention and affectively kept him from wandering into the couple’s shadow.
He’d turn to find her quietly observing him, the amusement earlier displayed on her visage hardly moving a fraction even as he drew her in close to him. Though immediately the warmth of his touch seeped through the lace of her bodice, and her body sang in delight to be held again. Not that it’d been so long, of course, but hers was an existence scarcely able to satisfy all the cravings without taking great care.
This particular specimen was quite handsome, she wouldn’t deny him that, and he smelled deliciously spontaneous. Her gaze shamelessly dropped to his mouth while they fell into step with ease. “Well, well,” Her hand was featherlight upon his shoulder, index finger tapping to make note of his exquisite suit jacket. “I was worried you were only playing dress-up.”
He wasn’t the best dancer she’d found herself in the arms of, but then she doubted a great number of others were as rigorously trained in social obligations as she’d been over the centuries. Constance might even be kind enough to say he was better than she’d hoped for when choosing him to help her blend in. The attention they attracted was little more than envy and awe, easily forgotten for a pretty dress or a bit of gossip and a drink.
Amusement lit up her beautiful face as she spun away and returned back into his arms. The Blues was an intimate dance. She often compared it to Bachata, but it was just a bit faster. A grace when Constance reluctantly considered she could not simply devour the poor boy in this setting. Though she could linger in all the right places, stepping close enough that his knee often guided the sway of her hips.
“I do love to be proven wrong…”
Constance allowed herself to be led. It gave her the opportunity to quickly cast her gaze over the dancefloor and locate her target for the evening. Both Nolan and – oh, what was that silly girl’s name? Ah…– Penelope (Gods, no wonder she couldn’t remember the damn thing) were still modestly infatuated with one another. With that in mind, Constance gently tugged on her partner’s hand to request his attention and affectively kept him from wandering into the couple’s shadow.
He’d turn to find her quietly observing him, the amusement earlier displayed on her visage hardly moving a fraction even as he drew her in close to him. Though immediately the warmth of his touch seeped through the lace of her bodice, and her body sang in delight to be held again. Not that it’d been so long, of course, but hers was an existence scarcely able to satisfy all the cravings without taking great care.
This particular specimen was quite handsome, she wouldn’t deny him that, and he smelled deliciously spontaneous. Her gaze shamelessly dropped to his mouth while they fell into step with ease. “Well, well,” Her hand was featherlight upon his shoulder, index finger tapping to make note of his exquisite suit jacket. “I was worried you were only playing dress-up.”
He wasn’t the best dancer she’d found herself in the arms of, but then she doubted a great number of others were as rigorously trained in social obligations as she’d been over the centuries. Constance might even be kind enough to say he was better than she’d hoped for when choosing him to help her blend in. The attention they attracted was little more than envy and awe, easily forgotten for a pretty dress or a bit of gossip and a drink.
Amusement lit up her beautiful face as she spun away and returned back into his arms. The Blues was an intimate dance. She often compared it to Bachata, but it was just a bit faster. A grace when Constance reluctantly considered she could not simply devour the poor boy in this setting. Though she could linger in all the right places, stepping close enough that his knee often guided the sway of her hips.
“I do love to be proven wrong…”
