Desiree moves with the fluidity of wine in his glass. He abandoned it though, before going to the dance floor. Took one long sip, then set it off on a tray. Dancing is serious business. 

She is in his arms and she isn't, now teasing with the easy sweep of her hip, now arching back her head so her slender throat is in his view, circled by polished stones. The startling blue next to gold and her skin is pharaonic in its glory, but alive with blood of today.

What did Villarreal call her? A smart cookie? No, a bright young lady, that's what he called her. Someone probably called his mom that, when dad and she met for the first time.

Desiree only proves the Chief right as the minutes run by. She doesn't speak, but how she dances! How she dances!

Harris forgets his skipped dinner. The lightness jittering his body into motion is more pleasant than full stomach. Music and the smile on the woman's lips draws him to a place outside of reality. Her neck doesn't bring swans to his mind, but the bend of arms does. He's not tethered by it, but he's hooked.

He reaches for another glass of wine as they sway next to the bar, but she stops his hand.

"I'm hot and tired," Desiree says. "Take me home."

He brushes the cut-out on her back, feeling smooth skin. It's warm, alright, but there's not a single drop of sweat. Not even dampness.

"You're lying," he whispers into her springy braids. He's a little drunk, yes. His body is broiling with restless energy only partially used up by an hour of dancing. "You're lying through your teeth, Des, and I don't care!"

She tosses her head back to laugh. "Oh, you're progressing nicely along the rebound curve, Harris Sarkisian!"

"Hah! I'm the King of the Curve!"

There's absolutely no need to search for clues or hidden intents with Desiree. What you see is what you get.

She wants him to take her home and she says so. And simple logic dictates that two plus two equals four happy people, if he leaves with Desiree. If he gives up surveying the crowd for that little black dress. The one of a kind garment in the sea of the LBDs, the one with wings.

Harris looks straight ahead while he walks out of the ballroom. Only once at the huge wooden doors, he glances back.

The dancers shimmer. In their swirl, he would be a fool to expect to pick Ablaze out. Emptiness tugs at his heart nonetheless. Stupid, because nothing can be be done even if he spotted her.

He places his hand on Desiree's back and doesn't dawdle any more. They came to the ball together. They're leaving together, same as planned.

The vibe between them changes though after they climb into his truck. The two-seater cabin fills with imperceptible substance. Hot and sticky like phantom smoke, it clings to his skin. It plugs his lungs. It makes the cabin shrink while he drives Desiree home. Sex already glues them together.

Even when he hops out of the truck to open the car door for her, the sensation doesn't melt away. If anything, it grows more potent the moment he takes her hand. Then, it's off the charts when she grinds into him while unlocking the door. He puts his hands onto her hips to press him closer to him.

The second the door bangs closed, he slides her full skirts up to her waist. Two layers of chiffon... they could be three or five or ten, and it won't make a difference. They are weightless. They are silky, but not as silky as the skin of her thighs. He bites into her mouth. She rolls from toe to heel, gyrating against the wall. Her fingers expertly jerk the buttons of his jacket out of their loops.

He moans and grinds into her again, slipping his lips down her neck, running his tongue along the line of gold and polished stones. They're warmed by her skin, and pleasantly smooth, not like cut, sharp diamonds. It's like pebbles in the pictures of Zen spas, only they cause an opposite effect than Zen. So, so opposite!

"Can you keep jewelry on?" he rasps into her ear. His voice has dropped to gravelly. "Please?"

She shimmies, sending the metal to jingle. It twinkles on her neck and wrists. "Convince me..." she teases, "Earn it!"

He lifts her off the floor and heads upstairs. "So that's how it is? That's how it is?"

Laughter undulates her, sending waves through his body, right to the point. "Absolutely. Ain't worth the risk of being strangled by my own necklace for a clutz who thinks his dick's a gift to womanhood."

"Dicks are many things."

"Indisputably."

The door to the bedroom is opened, so he stands her on her feet by the foot of the King-sized bed. The quilted duvet is white satin, but the pillows strewn in artistic disarray over it are striped emerald, orange and violet, with tassels and without, one cylindrical, the rest—squares of various sizes.

"Let's see if I can muddle through Act one, my Queen."

He piles up the pillows closer to the headboard. The body pillow hiding below the mound he puts in front. The result of his efforts is a plump barricade.

He cocks a questioning brow at her. "Yay or nay?"

"So far so good."

He crooks his finger at her, pretending he has a magic gift, the Force, mana or whatever.

"Come closer, my sweet... Closer... closer..."

She's game, walking in the shuffling steps of a zombie. Once she is within his reach, he turns her around and finds the tooth of her zipper below the cut-out, and slides it as far down as it goes. It stops at the middle of her bum. With one quick movement, he flicks the dress opened and it falls down in a pool of blue around her ankles.

She steps over it, clad in jewelry, a thong, her skin and sandals.

He clasps her waist and lifts her on the pillow at the head of the bed, legs dangling over the side. Then he bends to collect her dress and crosses the room to drape it over the dresser.

Her surprised giggles startle him. "Really?" she snorts, "That's different."

"I like your dress and I hate messes." His finger traces the curving shapes of the richly colored wood along the dresser's front. Respect for craftsmanship. "And respect for not being afraid to splurge on quality. This is one of a kind, isn't it?"

She taps her full lips. "Undress, and we'll see if I have an eye for a good thing."

"Enjoy the show."

He eases the tie's knot, unbuttons his shirt slowly, intercepting her glance whenever buttons, laces or socks don't hold his attention. A full-height mirror reflects him in profile, and a grin invades his face. Years are working for him for now, thickening his shoulders, but leaving the rest of him wiry.

Desiree's eyes sparkle with approval. She must be into long-limbed, dry physique on her men. And he's very much into neat, upturned breasts and slim ankles and wrists. Bingo!

Once he folds away his far-too-many items of clothing, he walks back to Desiree. He's naked. His toes sink into the plush carpet. After years tramping over smoking debris in steel-toed boots, he enjoys every barefoot step through her bedroom.

Her brows twitch in surprise when he sits on the end by her side.

"Did you think I would ravage you from a running start? Do I look like such a barbarian?"

He lays her legs over his naked thighs. His fingers caress the silky skin of her ankles, while he unwinds every cross of the straps of her golden sandals. Massages her toes, clicking appreciatively at the gold nail polish. One sandal off, then the other. He sets them by the bed, while she swings her legs over him.

"Think again," he whispers and steps into the space her legs have vacated. He's on his knees, but he doesn't lower himself onto his heels.

Her glance drifts boldly over his midsection, sizing him up. A smile so wide, it threatens to push past her cheeks and right off her face, stretches her lips. She brings her knees in, then out, in one fluid motion, to flick her panties off the pointed toe.

He clasps her waist and hikes her up the body pillow, making sure her hips are nice and high. Then he sets her into the shell of pillows, until she reclines on their colorful mosaic.

"Yes?"

She purrs 'uh-huh' in response.

He slips his palm between her legs, parting her knees, and leans in to kiss the beaconing hollow. Her first sounds of pleasure are cute. He waits for them to merge into a longer moan, then lifts his head. She's arching back, offering the tempting sight right before his eyes. But he resists coasting his gaze there, looking a little higher, and hooks her necklace, lifting it half-an-inch above her skin. "Stays on?"

Her fingers snake through his hair, tugging slightly as she's straightening and letting go off his curls. "Have it, have it! If it turns you on so much."

He savors his small victory. Even more so, he enjoys how deftly her hands slip a condom on him. Such a bright young lady...

"Desiree," he whispers. Blood rushes through him, pleasure's so acute, it makes him dizzy. But somewhere on the very edges of his awareness, sadness tinges his world. It's screwy. He pushes past the tingles.

"Desiree," he repeats like a mantra. As much as he wants to close his eyes and drift off into a sexual fantasy, he keeps them open. And not once he whispers the wrong name. That's Desiree wriggling under him. Desiree!