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“I love it when you call me senorita...every touch is ooh la la, it’s true, la la la. Ooh I should be running, oh you keep me coming for you..”
Wandering the beach after midnight has its advantages, Jon thought, as he happened upon a group of people dancing around a large fire. Not usual, no. Hot nights on Miami beaches always ended with wine, Fire and dancing, but...She’s not usual. With red hair competing for dominance with the light of the moon and the licking of the fire she twirls around with her girlfriends, long legs constantly whipped by a short prairie white skirt and sand. She pale in a world of tans and browns and she’s ethereal, nearly unearthly.
He didn’t notice he had stopped only a few yards away, that his staring as she rocks her hips to the rhythm and mouths the words to this song that only yesterday he swore was evil and over-processed, now he welcomes the words, especially as she sways and utters them against the wind.
And it’s then he realizes that she has stopped moving and she’s staring across the fire and directly at him - inside him, he thinks. She must hear my heartbeating wildly...and see it fluttering with those eyes - are they blue? She must like what she sees, as her smile returns and she starts to move around her spot, her eyes stay trained on him and he can’t hear the music. He can’t hear the surf slapping the shore wildly. It’s his heart trying to slow itself down, but as she moves closer, and as he realizes its beating like a bird dying on the concrete - scared and helpless to do anything.
She’s so damn tall, and she’s stunning, more than he thought she could be. She reaching out a hand to him when she’s less than a few feet away and now her hips are swaying again to the music and it’s everything in him that holds him back from staring only at her hips.
“Do you dance or only stare?” she asks, the flirting tone unmistakeable.
He grins, full teeth, and bits his lip taking her all in.
“Do you mind me stepping on your feet?” He asks and she’s now beaming not just smiling. It electric when he grabs her outreached hand, and he thinks this is what it must feel like to die when she steps forward, putting her chest to his.
“You could even stand still and let me do all the work,” she says as if she needs to beg him to commit to a dance. They both laugh, and he can feel it’s genuine, as the ripples of her laugh are felt by their closeness.
“Can I get a name? I like knowing the name of the pretty girls I’ll make a fool of myself with, first.”
“Sansa,” she sighs. The wind has picked up and the tendrils of her red hair whip back against her face and flick back against him. “22, Boston, here for vacation. What else do you need to know to dance with me?”
“Jon, “ he says, as he realizes she wants him to challenge her. He’s a brave man and he grabs the slimness of her waist surprising her. “Originally from Philly. 26. Here on break too.” She sighs, and then the most miraculous sway of her hips against his (dear God, Jon, don’t let her know how hard she’s making you).
“Do you follow direction or prefer to lead?” She asks, and he can’t tell if it’s the firelight but she blushes. This close he sees freckles, and the cutest of Cupid bows for lips.
“Depends,” he says, intoxicated and feeling assured that this night will end in more than wine and dancing by a fireside. He pulls her tighter to him, his knee slightly moving between hers, “On when and how you want me.”