@aranostra asked:
a kiss while slow dancing . (from louis)
In the sparse few nights of calm scattered throughout the eternal crawl of opulence, where glances shared were devoid of malice or contempt, a resurgence of the old romance stole breath from his lungs and filled his limbs with renewed vigor. The exhaustion of tip toeing through minefields melting away to give birth to the insatiable and immediate hunger for intimacy.
Louis sprawled along the chaise, fingers deep into the crevice of a book poised to turn another page in the silence, eyes lazy and dancing along word to word to word. It struck in him a chord that hummed in its plucking, resonating as if infinity had caught it's undulation and in its curiosity circulated it back upon itself until the sound could no longer be ignored.
Joy abounding, ricocheting its marching tune to the very tips of his limbs and back again, ever expounding delight upon delight until he could sit still no longer.
Lestat could no better control the impulse to jump to his feet than he could stop his mouth watering at the sound of that voice gushing as a waterfall might over a cliff's edge, drowning out the world around him, or the easeful grin in its infinite forms to curl those perfect lips and in doing so ignite the light in those eyes once more.
A moment to devour the stillness and his beauty beyond measure, and with all the languid indifference of a feline about the house he wanders to the victrola to pluck its needle from its rest and set it about the platter.
Brass croons it's buoyant melody, Louis' favorite, as he returns to offer a hand. Heart and loin alike throb in unison at the appraising grin peeling back pursed lips from their droll readings mouthed in silence for some absent audience and then...
Oh and then those hands in his.
The space between furniture reconstituted into their dance floor, the shelves and their many books their witnesses, the fire crackling through logs and coals pulsing their heat in the fireplace their spotlight.
Chest pressed to chest, breath finding it's path beneath shirt collar crashing like waves against cold skin made warm by the beating of hearts in sync. How one plus one becomes...one.
The overture fades to the next and lips wander across coarse fabric, up, over, pushing their way to buttery skin whose life had sated hunger once before and from which he sought to sate another. A kiss along veins, to ear, to jaw, where he lingered lavishing attentions to curves that sharpen in anger seeking to soften them now that he might be received blissfully.
And when he hears the pastel admission of an amiable sigh he retreats to watch the theatre of tenderness fall over gentle features, sufficiently subdued by the need in his own body.
Lestat strikes then, while the welcome is in the part of those lips and the fluttering of lashes and the way those hips press into him as if begging for a moment of bliss.
He is gentle in his consuming, chaste to begin his four course meal just a peck. For a ravenous man it is no small feat. Every limb wound ready for the feast promised him. Slathering, mad with desire, he holds back a moment longer if only for the sorrow of parting an inch of skin would bring him.
Tongue teases open a pliant mouth, tasting the evening's wine lingering on a sweetened tongue, gliding wet and devout to pry him open further. An ardent kiss embroiled in the fires of his ardor built upon by years of longing for a companion as worthy.
Cold hands trail the fine tailor of his favorite suit to ever hug the mountains of Louis' muscles, broad back to smaller waist to the sensuous curve of his lower spine. Nails dig in to hold him there, an innate desire blooming in quivering hands to meld with him without the barriers of cloth or skin, to absorb him soul to soul. Fervently. Completely. Utterly...one.
