There is nothing so heated, I don't think, as fusing your hips to his, keeping your upper body firm and unmoving, and letting your thighs and your knees and the balls of your feet draw out on a dance floor in no uncertain terms exactly how much better it would be if there was only skin and sweat involved.
Slow. Slow. Quick quick, slow. Slow, slow... slower. Slooower. It all comes together in a moment. He will hold out his hand, and forward you’ll step without question, without hesitation. Your right palm will meet his left, his fingers will close over yours; this is where all the words go, and this is how you will listen to him. His right hand will lock you in at your ribcage, and there you will stay; this is how he steers and directs. This is how he tells you want he wants. But because this is a dance of two, because a tango can only come from a pair, you will place the back of your hand at the cleft of his arm and his shoulder blade, to let him know that he’s not the only one in the room. This is how you keep him safe.
Your knees will be in lockstep, your thighs will line each other. And this is how you make him beg.
Slow. Don’t look at him, for he won’t look at you. Do not be humble, do not be coy; there is not a moment to be wasted here. You are haughty, and you are demanding and you want to be understood. When he leads you – and only he can lead you – you’ll make him pay for the privilege. Every inch of him from his hip to his knee will know how you feel as your right foot snakes backwards along the floor.
Quick quick. He knows, though. He knows that when he spins you out, you will relish it, because it means that every part of you will snap to attention. He will throw out his arm and parade you around with his fingertips, and you will snap your head away so he doesn’t see how much you enjoy it. Quick quick. After torturing you by drawing out the steps, he will snap you back in with a whirl and a flourish so that your knees are locked to his again, and you’ve no choice but to wait for his next step.
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