champagne, cocaine, gasoline; and most things in between
"Bold you to assume I am not already very warmed up," Mateo trills, before their bodies are all but writhing to the music and the lights, and they are inexorably drawn together in other ways. Even as the rest of the dancefloor jostles and sways around them, it feels fast and slow at the same time such that there's no clumsy clacking of teeth or biting of lips (not unless it's intentional, and Charlie will find the botanist all too willing).
His hands slip beneath his jacket to graze against her curves, fingers corsetting her waist as he draws back and the tempo of the song picks up. "This is more like it," he says, his head bent towards her ear to allow her to hear his voice, and he grasps her hand to draw her into an elegant twirl in spite of whatever other rhythm the crowd is following. If it isn't evident already, Mateo marches (or dances, as may be the case) to the beat of his own drum, and it's only as someone offers them both a crimson bead of snapdragon that he slows his movements that he might sample it from someone else's mouth.
His hands slip beneath his jacket to graze against her curves, fingers corsetting her waist as he draws back and the tempo of the song picks up. "This is more like it," he says, his head bent towards her ear to allow her to hear his voice, and he grasps her hand to draw her into an elegant twirl in spite of whatever other rhythm the crowd is following. If it isn't evident already, Mateo marches (or dances, as may be the case) to the beat of his own drum, and it's only as someone offers them both a crimson bead of snapdragon that he slows his movements that he might sample it from someone else's mouth.
