19. Back of the hand. "Got eyes on your mark?" Sam leans down, mock whispering against her ear. They're dressed to the nines, and though he looks the part in his nine part tuxedo (Sam, no, don't think about how it costs more than your entire wardrobe), she's leading, a half moon smile curving at the corners of her lips, all eyes on the two of them. "Try not to trip over your feet, Wilson." Her hand, small and smooth presses to the back of his neck, brushing just where the skin is exposed, his eyes glued to the red stained of her hair and lips and dress. The warbling symphony crescendoing with a boom and crash, her laugh light as he spins her round, the decrescendo met with regret as she leans up and whispers, "Think we got him." "Mhm." They did come here for a job after all--still, this doesn't stop Sam from gently grasping her hands, lips ghosting over pale smooth skin of the back of her palms to kiss the grooves between her knuckles ever so softly, eyes locked on hers. "Till next time, then."