#supernova's request

“Can I take this off yet?”

“Not yet.”

You let out a dramatic sigh, for Tom’s benefit.

The soles of his shoes are quiet on the floor, but you can track him moving away from you, doing something off to your right. Turning your head, you talk in his direction.

“Tall, dark and handsome doesn’t mean you have to be quiet and mysterious too,” you quip. The jest elicits a deep chuckle from your boyfriend that has your stomach flipping.

“And youth doesn’t mean you have to be in a rush all the time,” Tom responds.

Music starts to sweep through the room. Without looking, you know it’s one of his vinyl records. One of his quirks is his preference for the large, black records, the sleeves of which take up several shelves on a bookcase next to the record player.

As the needle passes over the tracks, you start to recognize the notes. Boogie Woogie Bugle Boys by the Andrews Sisters.

Warm hands grasp your hips and you jump. You missed his return, distracted by trying to determine the song.

He chuckles, the sound low and warm, causing your stomach to flip. “Now can I take it off?” you plead as he presses against you, his body warm and hard.

“No,” Tom repeats his earlier answer, earning him a huff of annoyance.

“You are being unreasonable,” you inform him, shivering as his stubble scrapes across your cheek.

“Your so-called sense of rhythm is forcing me to take drastic steps,” he murmurs into your ear.

“My sense of rhythm is fine!” You protest loudly. “It’s my feet that aren’t on board with the rest of me,” you add, feeling the sense of disbelief in his gaze.

“All we’re doing is removing some of the distractions,” he states.

You have to bite your tongue.

“I don’t count,” he adds, his lips grazing the back of your neck.

“I disagree,” you say, feeling the way your body tightens at the light touch.

“Now feel the beat.” He disappears from your back, leaving you standing alone, blind. Biting down on your lip, you wait a few measures. Okay. One-a-two-one-a-two, rock-step.

“You’re too stiff.” You feel a pressure against the back of your knees, and you bend them. A hand on your lower back encourages you to tilt forward a fraction, another hand on your stomach stopping you.

And then he’s gone again. Okay. Step-together-step, step-together-step, rock-step.

“The rock-step is a shift of your weight. You don’t need to move your whole body.” Tom stops you, hands framing your waist. The Andrews Sisters keep going on about the bugle boy as your boyfriend rubs his thumbs in small circles over your waist, the motions slow and out of place with the music.

“Put your foot back.” You oblige, feeling his foot nudging yours back forward. “It doesn’t have to be so dramatic.”

“Maybe I feel like being dramatic,” you quip. His smile is tangible.

“Now shift your weight back, towards me,” he states.

You do so, the motion feeling natural. There was a lot of crossover between fighting and dancing. Except in fighting you were basing your pace on that of an opponent, an irregular and imperfect rhythm. There wasn’t this need to try and fit three movements in two beats, or whatever it was that Tom had been trying to teach you.

“That’s it,” he praises. It’s a small thing, but the pleased note in his voice makes you flush. “Now try again, the whole thing.”

Yet again he vanishes, and you have to stifle the huff of annoyance. This was not the romantic evening you had in mind.

The song had started over, and after taking a few seconds to focus on the beat, you move. It’s easier this time, and you can feel yourself grinning as you repeat the basic step and Tom doesn’t stop you to correct anything.

A gasp escapes you as your hands are carefully lifted so they rest on Tom’s. For someone who works in an office or a bar, his hands have a touch more callouses than you expect. Elegant fingers though, ones that were quickly familiarizing themselves with your body, finding out where a light touch would have you sucking in air just a bit too quickly to be casual.

“Keep doing the footwork.” Trying not to stiffen up, you focus on the pattern of steps, trusting in Tom.

One of his hands leaves yours, causing a moment of panic from the loss of sensation. Abruptly the blindfold is being removed, and you blink rapidly, trying to orient yourself. Tom tosses the strip of fabric aside, reclaiming your hand and pulling you towards him.

You follow, doing your best to keep your eyes on his face and not your feet. It’s not as hard as you thought it would be, the soft smile he’s giving you making you feel like a live-wire. The song clicks over into another repetition as you feel yourself drowning in his eyes. Their brown is warm and inviting, a touch of gold giving them an exotic stare.

“You’re doing it,” Tom murmurs, keeping his voice low to preserve the intimate atmosphere.

“It’s rather boring,” you respond.

The way one corner of his mouth lifts spells trouble. You’ve seen that same grin on Josie’s face too many times to mistake it for anything less.

The next moment he’s twisting your arms, you stumbling along in a valiant attempt to keep dancing until your back is snug against Tom’s chest.

“That’s just the beginning,” he says in your ear, maintaining the steps with you in his arms. “Forgive me for boring you, but I find dancing to be a sensual act. Even teaching you is a bit of an aphrodisiac,” he adds, grazing his teeth over the side of your neck.

And then he spins you back out, away from him. You narrow your eyes, trying to ignore the way your blood races. “Teaching me how to dance to get laid. Wouldn’t have suspected you of that,” you tease.

A small squeak escapes you as once more you are being led by your hands with no idea what’s going on. You stop, hovering just above the floor, Tom holding the dip with ease.

“I don’t hear a complaint,” he says, centimeters above your lips.

“I can fix that,” you say back, locking eyes with him. “Maybe you should make sure I have other concerns.”

The kiss he lays on you is slow, tender. It’s unhurried and self-assured, Tom letting you be the one pushing for more, licking at his lips until he opens them. All too soon it’s over, Tom having moved you upright without your awareness.

“We should get going,” he says, his eyes drifting to your lips.

“Why?” you ask, fingers tangling in the front of his button-up shirt, tempted to start opening them.

“Because we have dinner reservations,” Tom replies, taking your hands in his and removing them. “Patience,” he adds, kissing your forehead, which is a few inches above where you want his lips.

“I’m fine with skipping dinner and going straight to dessert,” you respond, even though you know the battle has already been lost. Tom likes to have proper dates, and that means a good meal.

“Anticipation will make it all the sweeter,” he says, going into the hall closet and retrieving your coat, holding it out for you to slip into.

“I’m going to hold you to that,” you grumble.

“You’ll learn as you get older,” he says against your ear, reaching around you to do the front of the coat up.

It’s difficult not to respond with the truth when he makes statements like that, but at the same time, it’s endearing at times. Besides, you’re still trying to figure out how to break it to him that you aren’t human at all, much less far, far older than him.