A Partner on the Dance Floor
Who: R'vain and Laelle as the Masked Woman
Where: Benden Wedding
What: After a brief meeting where the masked woman tossed a monkey wrench in the Weyrleader's initial attempts on Fienne, R'vain and Laelle-incognito meet up for a dance, only the dancing is distracted by talking and the talking is distracted by dancing, among other things.
Benden Wedding: Courtyard
The giant Benden courtyard has been swallowed up by merchants, colorful stalls and wares of every kind crushed into the cobbled space. Broad walkways have been left for the milling crowd, with larger spaces cleared out here and there for spectacles and rest stops.
A large spread of rich foods has been set up to the east, benches strewn along the paths so resting diners can watch the crowd and, more importantly, the jugglers, acrobats, and mimes harassing passers-by. A round stage at the center of the yard gives those with tired feet and full bellies a place to rest while the actors alternate short musicals and scenes from a Benden farce. On towards the west lies another stage, this one a platform for the harpers who keep the dance floor lively. Beyond these, along the main arterial walkway which runs north-south from the face of Benden proper to the front gate of the big stone wall, one finds games of chance mixed in with the merchant stalls, drawing customers near enough for sales pitches.
The whole thing has been overlaid with lines of dangling flags in Benden and Bitra colors. For all that there is an invitations-only gala within the hold proper, and runner races outside the walls, it's clear that the heart of the party is out here in the courtyard.
The Reachian Weyrleader lets loose his latest dance; she moves away toward awaiting companions and he watches after her. For a moment he's an island, not quite the largest of men but taller than much of the dancing crowd, solo and adrift in the ocean of them as the musicians strike up a new tune. R'vain's grin turns soft for whatever reason and he shakes his head once, then turns his back on his most recent partner and her consort. A narrowed eye picks out the buffet some distance away, and slowly, among dancers, he moves toward it.
There's a twirl of crimson and emerald as the masked woman is spun around nearby. She dances with a man shorter than herself, a rather dumpy fellow known for a nice disposition. Even so, her expression as they've danced has become more and more bored. Whatever lured her out to the dance floor has lost its charm. As the song ends, the woman turns away and the last remnants of the sly smile disappear from her lips. She moves to depart, tall and sure and unhurried. Then, for a moment's beat she draws to a stop in front of the Weyrleader's gaze. She turns her head to look at him and something, not at all bored, toys in the corner of her lips, a smile's promise not yet delivered. Then she moves on as if such a moment never occurred.
But it did occur-- in R'vain's mind, anyway. Her pause, her cornered promise of a smile, her moving on-- they draw out on his maw a hungry peeling back of lips, a glaring show of teeth. A girl just beginning a new dance with a young Harper apprentice four feet away is distracted, it seems, by the looming Weyrleader's starvation stare. The red man turns to prowl after the masked woman, fists curling and uncurling by his hips, shoulders turning to help him wedge through the crowd at the pace of chase. In his wake, the Harper lad makes a small strangled noise, his toes trod upon.
With the masked woman's pace so leisurely, swaying and turning between dancing couples as she makes her way across the floor, it would be no surprise if a certain red man, so singular in thought as to ignore the wide attentive eyes of the harper's companion, might make notable progress in catching up. Even so, the masked woman adds no vigor to her step, she even pauses here and there to toss twisted smiles at the odd dancer as if she is completely unaware that the Weyrleader chases her.
As if. Well, she can't be unaware for long. It's at one of her smirking stops that he's all but upon her, shouldering past a couple with little but a rumbled pardon. That's hardly a rumble at all compared to the sudden spill of thundering syllables delivered lowly just behind the masked woman. "You owe me," come R'vain's first words to her, while a paw flashes between them in a reach for her waist-- whether it lands or not, there's a show for whatever dancer might be caught in the spotlight of the mask's smirk just now. "Surely you ain't forgot."
She doesn't move on. As his rumbling voice spills behind her and that paw reaches for her slender, corseted waist, she turns her head away from him, away from whomever she had paused to smile at. The tall collar half-hides the pale twist of her neck, showing only glimpses if he looms close and even then, the view that leads down the neckline to modest cleavage might be more distracting. When he's done speaking she turns her masked face back to him and lets her body follow, spinning under his hand. "Apparently I -have- forgotten. What do I owe you?" She gives him that wicked smile, knowing and devious.
His gaze is heated, but too fierce to be distracted by stretches of neck or glimpses of cleavage-- the red man's squinting at the side of her face and, when she turns /that/ away from him, what else might come to sight-- the back of her ear, glimpses around wherrydown and fabric, anything. His paw loosens upon her as she spins, but facing him wins her his abrupt closeness-- he steps up to squeeze out more of the space from between them and grabs again for her waist, while the other hand reaches for hers. "Y'interruped me," the Weyrleader informs her, voice thick with repressed energy. "Ain't /gentlemanly/ t'make on another man's mark." Not, given that he's steadily trying to manhandle her into a dance position, that the Reachian Weyrleader likely thinks the masked woman anything but.
"Why sir, did you want to dance?" the masked woman asks if barely feigned innocence, showing no sign that the ferocity of his eyes has even registered. But as she finds herself with a hand on her waist and her thin hand in his paw, dancing would seem like the intent. Her feet don't move if his doesn't. He'll have to lead. "I warn you, I'm not so talented a partner on the dance floor." For his remark, her smile twists deeper, teasing. "I'm not a gentleman. Are you?"
His feet move. He leads. His pace is animal, his grace the same; no fan of dancing for its own merit, nor of music, R'vain is ever said to be some fan of women and this is, after all, an exercise designed to create closeness to those creatures. /This/ creature he tugs a little more closely than a Weyrleader, dancing with a stranger, probably should. "Rarely," he replies in a harsh growl. "Y'talents lie elsewhere?"
Her long body bends easily, her waist obeying the press on his hand, holding her middle close, but she's arched and upright and her chest is held away, her shoulders free. As he leads her, she follows, going through the motions of the dance without flourish. - the striking outfit she wears is probably flourish enough. Her hand lifted in his, the ornate sleeve falls away from her pale forearm. "Oh yes," the masked woman says simply, lips wrapping mischievously around the words. "And you?" Her eyes, green against the rouge of makeup watch him with the sharpness of a feline tracking prey.
"Oh, yes," growls the Weyrleader, mimicry but not mockery, and an answer too. He seems displeased by her avoidant arch; his paw, most displeased of all, slides up the curve of her waist along her side, fumbling somewhat among fabrics and ornamentation. Its intent is plain anyway, to encourage her to be pinned to him while they dance. "You here t'cause trouble? Pretty specific function. Y'done this before?" 'This' he gestures at with a downward glance, /meaning/ her costume-- though his focus strays down the neckline instead, and a heated suck of breath accompanies a sudden, slavering grin.
The masked woman resists the fumbling of his hand. She gives him only what the curve of her back must allowed and her lips mock him with their smile. Of course, if he demanded, she would have little power to against his brute strength. "Am I causing trouble?" she asks sweetly. "And yes, I've done this before. Perhaps not with this particular appearance, but..." She just finishes the thought with a little tip of her head, affirmation.
If he demanded, it might look a bit like brutalizing the Hold's hospitality on the dance floor. R'vain does not demand, save by raising his gaze again to the masked face and, mouth twitching, pierce green eyes with green. "Caused trouble before, with some other appearance?" His tongue-tip draws a line over his upper teeth, then stops lightly touched to the point of a canine tooth.
She must know that the eyes of the party protect her from the possiblity of force. "Perhaps," the masked woman answers easily, flippant, smile fading from her lips. Her eyes start to drift off, watching another couple twist by. She ignores the behavior of the Weyrleader's tongue, not even looking at him.
"Nuh /uh/." It's fairly a snarl, and has the intonation of command-- punctuated by the tug of his hand at her waist, by the sudden narrowing of his gaze, by the looming of him closer as he bends toward her. His lead in the dance slows, their steps falling out of time, but he does not stop moving her; what he does is glare into that mask, nostrils flared, and hiss, "Y'don't like dancing?"
She does not turn his face back to him, but her eyes flick to his face, sharp again. As he bends closer, slows their steps, her glance moves over his face, as if intetion might be written on his forehead, on his cheek, on his lips. "Dancing is fine," she says. "I warned you that it is not my forte, but I am surely at your command, sir."
"Wonder what, then," rumbles R'vain, turning his head toward the side of hers, since she will not turn her face up to him again. Intention is there, certainly; it is drawn in the narrowness of his keen, hungry gaze and in the press of his furious mouth. But what that intention is may seem mixed. It may seem cruel or merely determined; it may seem salacious or merely investigative. It is almost not curious. "Maybe th'lady'd like to suggest an alternative." 'Maybe' /is/ his command.
"An alternative?" the masked woman repeats, something dark curling on her lips again. "Well..." She pulls her eyes from him and looks more pointedly at the dancers that wash around them. She extends a finger from him grasp, pointing at a young, dark-haired woman. "That one? She moves nicely enough."
"No," replies R'vain, without looking, substituting a tug of his palm curved against her waist for any variance in his emerald stare. "An alternative th'lady might like. F'dancing ain't y'strong point." Tug. Flare. Glower. "Then let's do somethin' other'n dance."
"I have no objection to dancing," the masked woman replies. "I just didn't realize I was so notably bad at it. All this time I thought I was doing a passable job and it turns out that my lack of talent is so pronounced that men would rather press me to leave the floor." Her tone is singsong, chipper, and her lips are curved slyly even if her eyes are hard for the tugging and glowering.
R'vain's glare widens. His pupils dilate and his brows draw and though he gets his lead back into the time of the music, there is absolutely nothing in that thoughtful, almost pained expression that speaks of thinking about the dancing. "No," he rumbles in a moment. Then he swallows audibly, and draws back his shoulders, and straightens his spine. Proper. And stiff. "Th'lady's a delight, talented or not. D'hate t'miss out th'dance. Forgive me." And careful; he's suddenly, now, not looking into the mask, into the eyes behind them. He's looking just past them, at nothing at all.
The masked woman watches his gaze go distant, her own eyes and wry mouth impassive as her mask and giving nothing away. The hand on his shoulder, though, slips slowly and easily toward his collar, a pale spider against his black suit. "Forgive you," she repeats his request, sly amusement in her voice. She tempers it slightly, so that her tone has a glimmer of honest questioning amid the droll humor. "Do you always ask for forgiveness so readily?" She extends a long, thin finger over the peak of his collar and lets it swipe along his neck, a singular pass of her cool fingertip and the drag of her nail. "Do you think that's safe?"
"Safe t'ask f'forgiveness?" R'vain steams a breath through flared nostrils and, at the touch of her fingertip and drag of her nail, retracts his focus. The glare he fixes upon the eyes visible in the shadows of the mask is cold, fiery in its angry intensity. But his rumble is as smooth as he can make it, his lips carefully kept in a not-unpleasant curve, almost smiling, except that this is not a man who smiles close-mouthed-- not for real, anyway. "Depends. With a friend, always. A lady, always. Might get nothing, but ain't going t'lose much. S'mother places, maybe not. Lose face." His chin jerks up and his jaw sets, defiant-- but the gesture opens up his throat, lengthens his warm neck, as if her touch inspires it as much as his irritation.
She parts her lips as she watches him lift his chin. There is only the briefest of glances spared for his neck and she hardly seems to be listening to his words for all the recognition that shows, or in this case does not show, on her face. Instead, she has other comments. "You don't look like a man who asks for forgiveness," she tells him, light, devious and delighted, dancing in her eyes despite that searing anger in his. "I think you know the tally too well." The masked woman smiles at him, broad and knowing, a flash of teeth gleaming against the rouged shade of her face and that strange dollop of gold on her lower lip.
"Maybe y'give me more credit than I'm due." The Reachian Weyrleader's glare seeps deeper into his features, for a moment downturning his mouth-- but the nearby swirl of another pair, dancing, reminds him of place and time. He parts his lips with a thick lap of flat tongue and closes them again in a smile, neither broad nor knowing. Guarded, at best.
"Perhaps," the masked woman admits quickly and easily, the chirp of her voice a touch girlish. "I'd hope not," she tells him, moving that hand from beside his collar back out toward his shoulder in a slow sweep, as if smoothing his black wedding finery. "But I know very little of you." Singsong and carefree and then abruptly sly again. "If I tell you that you don't seem to be enjoying my company, do you ask for my forgiveness again or am I supposed to ask for yours?"
R'vain's shoulder, beneath the thick fabric of that finery, beneath the sweeping touch of her slender hand, is tense. But he moves with his persistent animal intensity, backstepping a little abruptly, guiding her into a sweep of a turn, not too complex. An outlet, maybe. It's good to keep moving. "Never liked masked dances," he informs her, with a dip of his upraised chin that suggests only the least note of apology, but at least ends the upjerked jaw-set defiance. Those words seem to be his answer to her question, as unmatched a reply as they may be.
Perhaps because his hands have asked her to execute a turn, the extravagantly-hued skirt and airy ribbons fanning out as the masked woman moves, her own reply is simple. "Then why did you ask me to dance?" Her smile may seem sweet and sly, but it doesn't completely hide some tinge of sincerity that laces her voice.
He lets a little space grow between them for the flare of her skirt and the drift of her ribbons, and these seem to draw his eyes while she moves. When the Weyrleader draws her back in toward himself, to regain the position of the dance, his mood seems to have improved. "Wanted t'get a closer look," he replies, and finally shows teeth again, broad and gleaming, sharp and hungry accompaniment to a suspicious, narrow squint of emerald, keen.
She rewards his improved mood and the hand that reclaims her after the turn by letting her posture become incrementally more compliant to his touch, barely softening under his hand, but just enough so that her hips may be drawn in closer, breath by breath. An extension of the serpentine curves of her spine, her head tips back, her chin lifted and that stark line between red makeup at her jaw and pale skin of her neck flashes into view. "And what do you see, Weyrleader?" This time she lets her own voice rumble, not his oppressive thunder but a more feminine, throaty sound.
R'vain lowers his chin an increment more so his gaze is, as much as the disparity of his height (though she is tall enough that it is not as great as with most of his dance partners today) will allow, upturned through the fence of red lashes. "Still lookin'," he growls, but the growl is grinning, and after it he lets his focus steal around all of her face visible around her eyes, then drop to her painted and gold-dropleted mouth, then down to the expanse of neck she's given him to consider. By then his gaze is so downcast his lashes mesh, the green almost concealed. For a few steps he looks on her like this, and the breath he takes and exhales just before speaking is heavy, slow, heated. "Green eyes. Long neck. Blusher all over y'face." A laundry list of giveaways, maybe, but spoken in a rich, slow rumble, thoughtful, and thinking nothing so chaste as the things he's named. The paw upon her waist recognizes her compliance with a stroke-- no tugging, no demand. More like approval.
The drop of his gaze allows her own lashes to slip lower, though for her eyes the lashes are painted black and it is her eyelids that are red. She watches him now without that sharp edge of teasing, something distant and thoughtful instead. Her chin lifts just a little more to feel his gaze sink from her mouth to her neck. "The right mask," she says quietly, "Allows a person to see whatever it is that they want to see. Or whomever." She manages to keep her breath light and even until the approving stroke of his heavy paw on her corseted waist makes her drawn a long inhale that strains her curves against stiff fabric.
His eyes rove over her neck, over her throat; he tilts his head very slightly, even, and the effect of this is less to alter his view than that when he exhales next, the steam of his breath plays -so- very lightly over her skin. "I prefer t'be sure who I'm seeing," rumbles R'vain, but again he's slow in speaking, salacious in tone if not in words, slavering though the grin has faded and left behind an expression of intense, heated determination. "/What/, I can give a little ground on."
She must feel his breath, a tendon becomes visible at the base of her neck for the briefest moment, as if his warm exhale revealed it. Her lips part again and she blinks slowly while drinking in the heat of his voice. Though the movement of her brow is hidden by the mask, it's faint shift on the red-hued skin around her eyes is visible through the hole in the mask. "And whom?" she wonders, amusement starting to curl her mouth again. "What ground are you willing to give?"
"On /whom/?" The Reachian Weyrleader's gaze drags back up her neck to her jawline, her rouged face, her painted lips, over the downed mask, back to her feline eyes. "A dance," replies R'vain, the words heaved out almost like a sweet epithet, like they mean something else entirely. But his paw moves again along her waist, only a stroke, and not that much of one. No demand, no possession in it. He lifts his chin, and meets her unmasked eyes, and keeps their steps simple. Expectant.
The masked woman does exactly that for a moment - dances, letting him lead her with a hand that neither demands nor claims, meeting his gaze with a waiting one of her own. "And how am I doing?" she asks, almost forgetting to tease him until the end, when she punctuates the words left hanging in the air with a small smirk.
"You're better at th'mask than I," R'vain replies, after a moment's thought, as if he must consider the nature of her question, or the potential for answers, and choose from among them the one he likes best. It brings back his grin, though, in a flash, almost forgiveness-- and the paw that strokes her waist strokes a little longer, urging her closer with the gentlest of presses he might manage and still, to his mind, be felt through the boning of her corset.
"Well," the masked woman answers, her smile turning undeniably pleased, such that it seems to take her some deliberate effort to form her lips around her words. "I've had a lot of practice." Another flash of teeth back at him and a cursory glance that sweeps over his face, seeking out that forgiveness and meeting it with a vague curiosity. His hand, gentle, gives only hints that it would like her closer, and she's aware enough to let her dance steps alter the angle of her hips so that he might feel the curve of her body beneath his palm, but she does not yet grant him closer proximity.
R'vain lets out a small grunt for her answer, as though it has little meaning he can make any use of. But he watches her carefully, thoughtfully, while they dance for a moment in silence, the music around and between them their certain chaperone. Slowly, a grin fashions itself for her, lips peeled back from willing teeth, and he bends his head a bit as if he might put it beside hers, if she were to allow another stroke of his paw to bring her close. "Just dance with me," he rumbles, as softly as he can easily force his voice to be. There's no resignation in it; it's almost a command, partly a request, easily a suggestion. /This/, though, is just a tease-- "Then you can go back t'bein a feathered pest."
There, for a beat, is something indulgent about her smile, something waiting on her rouged lips in response to his grin. It twists though, lest it seem anything but toying and wry. Then she does allow that stroke of his hand to draw her in, her body bending beneath its press, bowing toward him like a reed, moreso for the rumble of his words. Her hand caught in his twitches, attempting to shift in his grasp before the warmth of thier hands makes her palm start to sweat. "I am dancing with you," the masked woman answers, a quiet murmur of her own, though not entirely free from that arched sense of knowing. She leans in a little closer then, closer than two strangers should be during a dance, and whispers, voice rich, "You just want to get under my feathers."
His paw slips from her waist around, palm curving neatly to the tuck of her lower back, fingertips barely reaching for her spine; the corset, the dress, the layers of fabric make the perfection of his hand's fit easier, less intimate. R'vain tucks her against himself without pressure of any other kind-- though the fingers that hold hers loosen only long enough for hers to shift the tiniest bit before they curl again around her hand. Let her sweat. "Maybe," he rumbles, bending his head an increment lower so the word's meant just for her, like lovers almost in their dancing-- if he tipped his head closer, his cheek might brush the feathers of her mask. "Ain't goin' t'say I wouldn't. 'Just,' though. You'd think 'just' precludes dancing and rambling on 'bout masks."
Between the man's stature and status and the woman's fantastic dress and mask, the closeness of their dance is not likely to go wholly unnoticed and yet the woman makes no effort to pull away. Her hand doesn't struggle once his closes on it, keeping the heat trapped between their palms. She turns toward his lowered head, the feathered edge of the mask moving away while her lips move closer. Her breath is restrained and soft on his skin. "I was referring to my mask," she purrs at him, a laugh in her eyes that might distract from the heat that rises there.
The Reachian Weyrleader has professed not to like masked dances. That may be why he turns toward her, matching her motion, and lifts his chin a little to reply, lowly, "Y'lyin'." If his gaze finds hers from the very corners of his eyes, he makes no great sign of it-- but his grin is fierce, narrow and full of sharp-cusped teeth.
She gives him only a beat of silence, held in his hands and moved along in their dance, a willing captive. "What makes you think that I'm lying?" she asks with a quirk of a smile still held on her lips. She cants her head and breathes out, deliberately setting the warmth of her exhale on his neck before she pulls her head back to a position that may be slightly more acceptable in the eyes of onlookers and better for her own eyes to watch him.
He draws back /his/ head too, but there is little about the rest of his posture that any longer nods to the notion of propriety. He dances, sure. And there is no overt grind, no willful press of himself against her-- but this is not a slow song really, and his paw on her back and their closeness suggest a slower beat than that to which they're dancing. If the music was different, it would be fine. "Th'fact you said it in th'first place," R'vain rumbles, fixing her in the glare of emerald fire and sterling white grin. "Challenge."
The pace of the music and the closeness between might be more easily handled by a surer dancer, but masked woman has already professed a lack of talent in that arena and she has so her steps are rather plain, swaying enough to keep up the pretense of a dance and remind him of her body beneath his hand by the subtle subdued shifts of her hips and the bends of her waist as they move together on the floor. She meets his glare with the steadiness of her gaze and her unchangingly sly smile. "How is it a challenge?" she asks, lifting her chin again, letting her lashes slip lower, languid for a beat or two of the music.
"Any time a woman implies y'got an agenda on her person," replies R'vain, taking on easily the obligation of leading their simple steps-- awkward as it may be to close-dance to the music the harpers have provided. "S'a challenge. Y'either get called out, or y'deny it." His shoulders twitch, a hint of the luxuriant, slow ripple which better represents his usual shrug, but would be ungainly for their dancing. "Just my observation. Y'want t'claim you're an exception-- " Well, she's welcome, but she'll have to face the sudden widening of his lascivious grin to do so.
The twitch of his shoulder is felt more than seen, and her hand flexes gently over it. She does face his grin, smirking back with the spread of her lips. Then she leans in again, angling her cheek to paralle his, to murmur quietly to him. "I wouldn't claim anything of myself," she says pressing closer still until their bodied brush together as they dance. "That would negate the point of the mask, wouldn't it?" Her eyes drop to his neck, lashes low as she draws in his scent with another long inhale. "I'll leave you to form your own impressions." She pulls her glance up to his mouth before finding his eyes, something quiet, waiting and well-contained in her green gaze.
R'vain bends his neck down and turns his head just toward hers, little enough so the nearness of their cheeks is absolutely unquestionable by those that surround them-- if anyone were so bold as to question. His grin splits to let out his tongue, which twitches over his teeth and slinks back in, all a seeming show for her eyes. A slow thundercloud's murmur, deep and lascivious, opens up his rich reply. "Mmmm. Y'ask me, y'want t'be an exception, th'mask'd be th'time." He pulls back just enough to meet her eyes; hers wait, contained, and his glint with facets of eerie fire.
Though he may not see it, with their heads so close, cheeks aligned and her gaze over his shoulder, her eyes close. Her red lids lower slowly to savor whatever sensations the moment offers her. They lift again and pull back as he does. Even this woman, even with the protection of her mark, cannot help but hesitate at those words. There is a stillness in the eyes that meet his, a green wall that holds her thoughts behind their unyielding steadiness. She all but forgets to dance, letting his lead, the gentle urgings of his hands and arms, be all that guides her through the motions. Her smile, careful and unwavering as the wall of her eyes, stays in its quiet smirk, a mask beneath the mask. She tips her face up to him and lets her lips part for a scant beat before asking, "And what would you suggest I do?" The hand on his shoulder starts to slip down to his chest, but it does not push him away, it seems instead to recording the feel of him under her palm, a small, intimate motion that would surely be overlooked by fellow dancers who are likely still boggling at the bodily closeness of the pair. A closeness that threatens to drift away as she test the hold of his hand and attempts to return their positions to something a little less noticeable, though still too close to be entirely appropriate.
"S'pose," replies R'vain, "y'could do anything." His hand resists the pull of her body-- only long enough for her to be sure that he doesn't want her to go. After two steps more of their close, close dance his grip submits and his paw slips back to the side of her waist. He glances down, like to spot her hand on his chest-- but when he glances back up his grin is knowing. Not just hungry. Not just leering. Knowing. Certain. It helps that he meets her eyes, and this time it's he who waits, and challenges.
"Mmm," she hums. A note to match that hungry knowing of his expression. She shows him one in return, eyes almost playful in their awareness, her smile no less teasing for how small the curve of it may be. "You would like that, wouldn't you. You'd like to see what I would do." Her voice is quiet, a purr from her throat. "How much I'd allow with my guard down and by inhibitions abandoned, under the guise of anonymity. How I might touch you then. The sound of my breath. The way my lips might feel. Yes," she says, promises. "You'd like that." She lifts one finger from his chest and stokes him with it just once. Her eyes watch him, her smirk deepens.
Her assertion that he'd like these things curls a smirkier shape out of the corners of his mouth. But while she purrs, R'vain just leads their dance, and watches the green eyes behind the mask, listening-- watching-- and maybe more the latter than the former, as if now that he has the certainty he's silently assured her he has, he's more interested in or able to pick up physical cues. "Who wouldn't," he rumbles, dismissing all of her promises-- threats-- with those two simple words, hardly a question at all. But this he leans in a little, the paw upon her waist savoring a long stroke-- his fingertips find the boning of the corset beneath the fabric of the dress and press between those struts, to try to make her skin know his touch-- and this he says quite softly, raspingly, low. "Y'implyin' I got an agenda on y'person, again."
She feels that stroke at her waist and answers it by pressing her palm to his chest as she slides her hand back up to his shoulder, a touch for a touch. That he has only those two words for her promises doesn't seem to worry her at all. There is still unflappable confidence in that small twist of a grin. Her lashes are low over the heat and teasing of her gaze. "I don't think I was implying."
"No," says R'vain, and that is the last thing he rasps in a soft voice, something approaching gentle. The rest is a growl, the sort of growl that ripples through him, a vibrato rumble available to anyone in contact with him, and the more so if they're near his chest. He tightens his paw upon her waist, an encouragement to /feel/ him talk. Why listen? "Y'weren't. Y'were sayin' I'd like t'feel you squirm. T'hear you whimper. T'smell you-- " Why listen? Feel him. He bends his head beside hers again, and inhales a breath so deep his chest swells, his shoulders square. And still his feet move, in these same dance designs.
The lean body under his hand offers no resistence, drawn in and bending to him to feel the vibration of his voice rumble through her like an earthquake, to let him feel the slender softness of her body in return. It parts her lips to release a small sigh for his ear alone. "To taste me," the masked woman whispers for him. As he breathes in she does the same, closing the space between them with the simultaneous rise of their chests. "But you can't." She spares a glance for the couples that dance around them, letting 'here' and 'now' go unspoken.
R'vain does little to keep his voice low; what he /does/ do is completely ignore her spared glance-- though he cannot, with his attention so solely upon her, have missed it-- and bend his head even closer beside hers, to speak directly to her ear. "In a way," he informs, as the music descends from the crest-- past some time ago-- into denouement, "I have." Then he draws back his head, taking on once more the proper position for their dance, even allowing space between them as it should be. Unlike the prim moments a few minutes ago, he is this time anything but cold in his silence; he faces her with hungry grin, urgent brows, burning stare.
A short breath from the masked woman's lips is amused, some voiceless laugh for tastes taken, admitting to nothing but not bothering to deny either. She slips from against him as his arms relax, mirroring his return to a more acceptable distance. Her smile is brighter now, still wicked but warm as well. As the music drains away and they come to a stop, she slips further from him. "'Til we meet again, Weyrleader," she says, something cheeky growing in her grin. Her fingers sweep lightly from his shoulder and go soft in his hand, ready to be released.
The Weyrleader has, from the masked woman, one last requirement. He lets her slip from him, all but those fingers in his hand. He lifts them, bending her knuckles across his forefinger as he draws them toward himself. She'd know, surely, what he has in mind. But it's harmless enough-- he bends his head, kisses her hand. His eyes remain upcast, watching her all the time. Then she's free, and he inclines for her a deep nod, not at all a bow. Then he turns away, shouldering through the crowd toward the spread, for dinner /she/ interrupted once already, and will not interrupt again.
Where: Benden Wedding
What: After a brief meeting where the masked woman tossed a monkey wrench in the Weyrleader's initial attempts on Fienne, R'vain and Laelle-incognito meet up for a dance, only the dancing is distracted by talking and the talking is distracted by dancing, among other things.
Benden Wedding: Courtyard
The giant Benden courtyard has been swallowed up by merchants, colorful stalls and wares of every kind crushed into the cobbled space. Broad walkways have been left for the milling crowd, with larger spaces cleared out here and there for spectacles and rest stops.
A large spread of rich foods has been set up to the east, benches strewn along the paths so resting diners can watch the crowd and, more importantly, the jugglers, acrobats, and mimes harassing passers-by. A round stage at the center of the yard gives those with tired feet and full bellies a place to rest while the actors alternate short musicals and scenes from a Benden farce. On towards the west lies another stage, this one a platform for the harpers who keep the dance floor lively. Beyond these, along the main arterial walkway which runs north-south from the face of Benden proper to the front gate of the big stone wall, one finds games of chance mixed in with the merchant stalls, drawing customers near enough for sales pitches.
The whole thing has been overlaid with lines of dangling flags in Benden and Bitra colors. For all that there is an invitations-only gala within the hold proper, and runner races outside the walls, it's clear that the heart of the party is out here in the courtyard.
The Reachian Weyrleader lets loose his latest dance; she moves away toward awaiting companions and he watches after her. For a moment he's an island, not quite the largest of men but taller than much of the dancing crowd, solo and adrift in the ocean of them as the musicians strike up a new tune. R'vain's grin turns soft for whatever reason and he shakes his head once, then turns his back on his most recent partner and her consort. A narrowed eye picks out the buffet some distance away, and slowly, among dancers, he moves toward it.
There's a twirl of crimson and emerald as the masked woman is spun around nearby. She dances with a man shorter than herself, a rather dumpy fellow known for a nice disposition. Even so, her expression as they've danced has become more and more bored. Whatever lured her out to the dance floor has lost its charm. As the song ends, the woman turns away and the last remnants of the sly smile disappear from her lips. She moves to depart, tall and sure and unhurried. Then, for a moment's beat she draws to a stop in front of the Weyrleader's gaze. She turns her head to look at him and something, not at all bored, toys in the corner of her lips, a smile's promise not yet delivered. Then she moves on as if such a moment never occurred.
But it did occur-- in R'vain's mind, anyway. Her pause, her cornered promise of a smile, her moving on-- they draw out on his maw a hungry peeling back of lips, a glaring show of teeth. A girl just beginning a new dance with a young Harper apprentice four feet away is distracted, it seems, by the looming Weyrleader's starvation stare. The red man turns to prowl after the masked woman, fists curling and uncurling by his hips, shoulders turning to help him wedge through the crowd at the pace of chase. In his wake, the Harper lad makes a small strangled noise, his toes trod upon.
With the masked woman's pace so leisurely, swaying and turning between dancing couples as she makes her way across the floor, it would be no surprise if a certain red man, so singular in thought as to ignore the wide attentive eyes of the harper's companion, might make notable progress in catching up. Even so, the masked woman adds no vigor to her step, she even pauses here and there to toss twisted smiles at the odd dancer as if she is completely unaware that the Weyrleader chases her.
As if. Well, she can't be unaware for long. It's at one of her smirking stops that he's all but upon her, shouldering past a couple with little but a rumbled pardon. That's hardly a rumble at all compared to the sudden spill of thundering syllables delivered lowly just behind the masked woman. "You owe me," come R'vain's first words to her, while a paw flashes between them in a reach for her waist-- whether it lands or not, there's a show for whatever dancer might be caught in the spotlight of the mask's smirk just now. "Surely you ain't forgot."
She doesn't move on. As his rumbling voice spills behind her and that paw reaches for her slender, corseted waist, she turns her head away from him, away from whomever she had paused to smile at. The tall collar half-hides the pale twist of her neck, showing only glimpses if he looms close and even then, the view that leads down the neckline to modest cleavage might be more distracting. When he's done speaking she turns her masked face back to him and lets her body follow, spinning under his hand. "Apparently I -have- forgotten. What do I owe you?" She gives him that wicked smile, knowing and devious.
His gaze is heated, but too fierce to be distracted by stretches of neck or glimpses of cleavage-- the red man's squinting at the side of her face and, when she turns /that/ away from him, what else might come to sight-- the back of her ear, glimpses around wherrydown and fabric, anything. His paw loosens upon her as she spins, but facing him wins her his abrupt closeness-- he steps up to squeeze out more of the space from between them and grabs again for her waist, while the other hand reaches for hers. "Y'interruped me," the Weyrleader informs her, voice thick with repressed energy. "Ain't /gentlemanly/ t'make on another man's mark." Not, given that he's steadily trying to manhandle her into a dance position, that the Reachian Weyrleader likely thinks the masked woman anything but.
"Why sir, did you want to dance?" the masked woman asks if barely feigned innocence, showing no sign that the ferocity of his eyes has even registered. But as she finds herself with a hand on her waist and her thin hand in his paw, dancing would seem like the intent. Her feet don't move if his doesn't. He'll have to lead. "I warn you, I'm not so talented a partner on the dance floor." For his remark, her smile twists deeper, teasing. "I'm not a gentleman. Are you?"
His feet move. He leads. His pace is animal, his grace the same; no fan of dancing for its own merit, nor of music, R'vain is ever said to be some fan of women and this is, after all, an exercise designed to create closeness to those creatures. /This/ creature he tugs a little more closely than a Weyrleader, dancing with a stranger, probably should. "Rarely," he replies in a harsh growl. "Y'talents lie elsewhere?"
Her long body bends easily, her waist obeying the press on his hand, holding her middle close, but she's arched and upright and her chest is held away, her shoulders free. As he leads her, she follows, going through the motions of the dance without flourish. - the striking outfit she wears is probably flourish enough. Her hand lifted in his, the ornate sleeve falls away from her pale forearm. "Oh yes," the masked woman says simply, lips wrapping mischievously around the words. "And you?" Her eyes, green against the rouge of makeup watch him with the sharpness of a feline tracking prey.
"Oh, yes," growls the Weyrleader, mimicry but not mockery, and an answer too. He seems displeased by her avoidant arch; his paw, most displeased of all, slides up the curve of her waist along her side, fumbling somewhat among fabrics and ornamentation. Its intent is plain anyway, to encourage her to be pinned to him while they dance. "You here t'cause trouble? Pretty specific function. Y'done this before?" 'This' he gestures at with a downward glance, /meaning/ her costume-- though his focus strays down the neckline instead, and a heated suck of breath accompanies a sudden, slavering grin.
The masked woman resists the fumbling of his hand. She gives him only what the curve of her back must allowed and her lips mock him with their smile. Of course, if he demanded, she would have little power to against his brute strength. "Am I causing trouble?" she asks sweetly. "And yes, I've done this before. Perhaps not with this particular appearance, but..." She just finishes the thought with a little tip of her head, affirmation.
If he demanded, it might look a bit like brutalizing the Hold's hospitality on the dance floor. R'vain does not demand, save by raising his gaze again to the masked face and, mouth twitching, pierce green eyes with green. "Caused trouble before, with some other appearance?" His tongue-tip draws a line over his upper teeth, then stops lightly touched to the point of a canine tooth.
She must know that the eyes of the party protect her from the possiblity of force. "Perhaps," the masked woman answers easily, flippant, smile fading from her lips. Her eyes start to drift off, watching another couple twist by. She ignores the behavior of the Weyrleader's tongue, not even looking at him.
"Nuh /uh/." It's fairly a snarl, and has the intonation of command-- punctuated by the tug of his hand at her waist, by the sudden narrowing of his gaze, by the looming of him closer as he bends toward her. His lead in the dance slows, their steps falling out of time, but he does not stop moving her; what he does is glare into that mask, nostrils flared, and hiss, "Y'don't like dancing?"
She does not turn his face back to him, but her eyes flick to his face, sharp again. As he bends closer, slows their steps, her glance moves over his face, as if intetion might be written on his forehead, on his cheek, on his lips. "Dancing is fine," she says. "I warned you that it is not my forte, but I am surely at your command, sir."
"Wonder what, then," rumbles R'vain, turning his head toward the side of hers, since she will not turn her face up to him again. Intention is there, certainly; it is drawn in the narrowness of his keen, hungry gaze and in the press of his furious mouth. But what that intention is may seem mixed. It may seem cruel or merely determined; it may seem salacious or merely investigative. It is almost not curious. "Maybe th'lady'd like to suggest an alternative." 'Maybe' /is/ his command.
"An alternative?" the masked woman repeats, something dark curling on her lips again. "Well..." She pulls her eyes from him and looks more pointedly at the dancers that wash around them. She extends a finger from him grasp, pointing at a young, dark-haired woman. "That one? She moves nicely enough."
"No," replies R'vain, without looking, substituting a tug of his palm curved against her waist for any variance in his emerald stare. "An alternative th'lady might like. F'dancing ain't y'strong point." Tug. Flare. Glower. "Then let's do somethin' other'n dance."
"I have no objection to dancing," the masked woman replies. "I just didn't realize I was so notably bad at it. All this time I thought I was doing a passable job and it turns out that my lack of talent is so pronounced that men would rather press me to leave the floor." Her tone is singsong, chipper, and her lips are curved slyly even if her eyes are hard for the tugging and glowering.
R'vain's glare widens. His pupils dilate and his brows draw and though he gets his lead back into the time of the music, there is absolutely nothing in that thoughtful, almost pained expression that speaks of thinking about the dancing. "No," he rumbles in a moment. Then he swallows audibly, and draws back his shoulders, and straightens his spine. Proper. And stiff. "Th'lady's a delight, talented or not. D'hate t'miss out th'dance. Forgive me." And careful; he's suddenly, now, not looking into the mask, into the eyes behind them. He's looking just past them, at nothing at all.
The masked woman watches his gaze go distant, her own eyes and wry mouth impassive as her mask and giving nothing away. The hand on his shoulder, though, slips slowly and easily toward his collar, a pale spider against his black suit. "Forgive you," she repeats his request, sly amusement in her voice. She tempers it slightly, so that her tone has a glimmer of honest questioning amid the droll humor. "Do you always ask for forgiveness so readily?" She extends a long, thin finger over the peak of his collar and lets it swipe along his neck, a singular pass of her cool fingertip and the drag of her nail. "Do you think that's safe?"
"Safe t'ask f'forgiveness?" R'vain steams a breath through flared nostrils and, at the touch of her fingertip and drag of her nail, retracts his focus. The glare he fixes upon the eyes visible in the shadows of the mask is cold, fiery in its angry intensity. But his rumble is as smooth as he can make it, his lips carefully kept in a not-unpleasant curve, almost smiling, except that this is not a man who smiles close-mouthed-- not for real, anyway. "Depends. With a friend, always. A lady, always. Might get nothing, but ain't going t'lose much. S'mother places, maybe not. Lose face." His chin jerks up and his jaw sets, defiant-- but the gesture opens up his throat, lengthens his warm neck, as if her touch inspires it as much as his irritation.
She parts her lips as she watches him lift his chin. There is only the briefest of glances spared for his neck and she hardly seems to be listening to his words for all the recognition that shows, or in this case does not show, on her face. Instead, she has other comments. "You don't look like a man who asks for forgiveness," she tells him, light, devious and delighted, dancing in her eyes despite that searing anger in his. "I think you know the tally too well." The masked woman smiles at him, broad and knowing, a flash of teeth gleaming against the rouged shade of her face and that strange dollop of gold on her lower lip.
"Maybe y'give me more credit than I'm due." The Reachian Weyrleader's glare seeps deeper into his features, for a moment downturning his mouth-- but the nearby swirl of another pair, dancing, reminds him of place and time. He parts his lips with a thick lap of flat tongue and closes them again in a smile, neither broad nor knowing. Guarded, at best.
"Perhaps," the masked woman admits quickly and easily, the chirp of her voice a touch girlish. "I'd hope not," she tells him, moving that hand from beside his collar back out toward his shoulder in a slow sweep, as if smoothing his black wedding finery. "But I know very little of you." Singsong and carefree and then abruptly sly again. "If I tell you that you don't seem to be enjoying my company, do you ask for my forgiveness again or am I supposed to ask for yours?"
R'vain's shoulder, beneath the thick fabric of that finery, beneath the sweeping touch of her slender hand, is tense. But he moves with his persistent animal intensity, backstepping a little abruptly, guiding her into a sweep of a turn, not too complex. An outlet, maybe. It's good to keep moving. "Never liked masked dances," he informs her, with a dip of his upraised chin that suggests only the least note of apology, but at least ends the upjerked jaw-set defiance. Those words seem to be his answer to her question, as unmatched a reply as they may be.
Perhaps because his hands have asked her to execute a turn, the extravagantly-hued skirt and airy ribbons fanning out as the masked woman moves, her own reply is simple. "Then why did you ask me to dance?" Her smile may seem sweet and sly, but it doesn't completely hide some tinge of sincerity that laces her voice.
He lets a little space grow between them for the flare of her skirt and the drift of her ribbons, and these seem to draw his eyes while she moves. When the Weyrleader draws her back in toward himself, to regain the position of the dance, his mood seems to have improved. "Wanted t'get a closer look," he replies, and finally shows teeth again, broad and gleaming, sharp and hungry accompaniment to a suspicious, narrow squint of emerald, keen.
She rewards his improved mood and the hand that reclaims her after the turn by letting her posture become incrementally more compliant to his touch, barely softening under his hand, but just enough so that her hips may be drawn in closer, breath by breath. An extension of the serpentine curves of her spine, her head tips back, her chin lifted and that stark line between red makeup at her jaw and pale skin of her neck flashes into view. "And what do you see, Weyrleader?" This time she lets her own voice rumble, not his oppressive thunder but a more feminine, throaty sound.
R'vain lowers his chin an increment more so his gaze is, as much as the disparity of his height (though she is tall enough that it is not as great as with most of his dance partners today) will allow, upturned through the fence of red lashes. "Still lookin'," he growls, but the growl is grinning, and after it he lets his focus steal around all of her face visible around her eyes, then drop to her painted and gold-dropleted mouth, then down to the expanse of neck she's given him to consider. By then his gaze is so downcast his lashes mesh, the green almost concealed. For a few steps he looks on her like this, and the breath he takes and exhales just before speaking is heavy, slow, heated. "Green eyes. Long neck. Blusher all over y'face." A laundry list of giveaways, maybe, but spoken in a rich, slow rumble, thoughtful, and thinking nothing so chaste as the things he's named. The paw upon her waist recognizes her compliance with a stroke-- no tugging, no demand. More like approval.
The drop of his gaze allows her own lashes to slip lower, though for her eyes the lashes are painted black and it is her eyelids that are red. She watches him now without that sharp edge of teasing, something distant and thoughtful instead. Her chin lifts just a little more to feel his gaze sink from her mouth to her neck. "The right mask," she says quietly, "Allows a person to see whatever it is that they want to see. Or whomever." She manages to keep her breath light and even until the approving stroke of his heavy paw on her corseted waist makes her drawn a long inhale that strains her curves against stiff fabric.
His eyes rove over her neck, over her throat; he tilts his head very slightly, even, and the effect of this is less to alter his view than that when he exhales next, the steam of his breath plays -so- very lightly over her skin. "I prefer t'be sure who I'm seeing," rumbles R'vain, but again he's slow in speaking, salacious in tone if not in words, slavering though the grin has faded and left behind an expression of intense, heated determination. "/What/, I can give a little ground on."
She must feel his breath, a tendon becomes visible at the base of her neck for the briefest moment, as if his warm exhale revealed it. Her lips part again and she blinks slowly while drinking in the heat of his voice. Though the movement of her brow is hidden by the mask, it's faint shift on the red-hued skin around her eyes is visible through the hole in the mask. "And whom?" she wonders, amusement starting to curl her mouth again. "What ground are you willing to give?"
"On /whom/?" The Reachian Weyrleader's gaze drags back up her neck to her jawline, her rouged face, her painted lips, over the downed mask, back to her feline eyes. "A dance," replies R'vain, the words heaved out almost like a sweet epithet, like they mean something else entirely. But his paw moves again along her waist, only a stroke, and not that much of one. No demand, no possession in it. He lifts his chin, and meets her unmasked eyes, and keeps their steps simple. Expectant.
The masked woman does exactly that for a moment - dances, letting him lead her with a hand that neither demands nor claims, meeting his gaze with a waiting one of her own. "And how am I doing?" she asks, almost forgetting to tease him until the end, when she punctuates the words left hanging in the air with a small smirk.
"You're better at th'mask than I," R'vain replies, after a moment's thought, as if he must consider the nature of her question, or the potential for answers, and choose from among them the one he likes best. It brings back his grin, though, in a flash, almost forgiveness-- and the paw that strokes her waist strokes a little longer, urging her closer with the gentlest of presses he might manage and still, to his mind, be felt through the boning of her corset.
"Well," the masked woman answers, her smile turning undeniably pleased, such that it seems to take her some deliberate effort to form her lips around her words. "I've had a lot of practice." Another flash of teeth back at him and a cursory glance that sweeps over his face, seeking out that forgiveness and meeting it with a vague curiosity. His hand, gentle, gives only hints that it would like her closer, and she's aware enough to let her dance steps alter the angle of her hips so that he might feel the curve of her body beneath his palm, but she does not yet grant him closer proximity.
R'vain lets out a small grunt for her answer, as though it has little meaning he can make any use of. But he watches her carefully, thoughtfully, while they dance for a moment in silence, the music around and between them their certain chaperone. Slowly, a grin fashions itself for her, lips peeled back from willing teeth, and he bends his head a bit as if he might put it beside hers, if she were to allow another stroke of his paw to bring her close. "Just dance with me," he rumbles, as softly as he can easily force his voice to be. There's no resignation in it; it's almost a command, partly a request, easily a suggestion. /This/, though, is just a tease-- "Then you can go back t'bein a feathered pest."
There, for a beat, is something indulgent about her smile, something waiting on her rouged lips in response to his grin. It twists though, lest it seem anything but toying and wry. Then she does allow that stroke of his hand to draw her in, her body bending beneath its press, bowing toward him like a reed, moreso for the rumble of his words. Her hand caught in his twitches, attempting to shift in his grasp before the warmth of thier hands makes her palm start to sweat. "I am dancing with you," the masked woman answers, a quiet murmur of her own, though not entirely free from that arched sense of knowing. She leans in a little closer then, closer than two strangers should be during a dance, and whispers, voice rich, "You just want to get under my feathers."
His paw slips from her waist around, palm curving neatly to the tuck of her lower back, fingertips barely reaching for her spine; the corset, the dress, the layers of fabric make the perfection of his hand's fit easier, less intimate. R'vain tucks her against himself without pressure of any other kind-- though the fingers that hold hers loosen only long enough for hers to shift the tiniest bit before they curl again around her hand. Let her sweat. "Maybe," he rumbles, bending his head an increment lower so the word's meant just for her, like lovers almost in their dancing-- if he tipped his head closer, his cheek might brush the feathers of her mask. "Ain't goin' t'say I wouldn't. 'Just,' though. You'd think 'just' precludes dancing and rambling on 'bout masks."
Between the man's stature and status and the woman's fantastic dress and mask, the closeness of their dance is not likely to go wholly unnoticed and yet the woman makes no effort to pull away. Her hand doesn't struggle once his closes on it, keeping the heat trapped between their palms. She turns toward his lowered head, the feathered edge of the mask moving away while her lips move closer. Her breath is restrained and soft on his skin. "I was referring to my mask," she purrs at him, a laugh in her eyes that might distract from the heat that rises there.
The Reachian Weyrleader has professed not to like masked dances. That may be why he turns toward her, matching her motion, and lifts his chin a little to reply, lowly, "Y'lyin'." If his gaze finds hers from the very corners of his eyes, he makes no great sign of it-- but his grin is fierce, narrow and full of sharp-cusped teeth.
She gives him only a beat of silence, held in his hands and moved along in their dance, a willing captive. "What makes you think that I'm lying?" she asks with a quirk of a smile still held on her lips. She cants her head and breathes out, deliberately setting the warmth of her exhale on his neck before she pulls her head back to a position that may be slightly more acceptable in the eyes of onlookers and better for her own eyes to watch him.
He draws back /his/ head too, but there is little about the rest of his posture that any longer nods to the notion of propriety. He dances, sure. And there is no overt grind, no willful press of himself against her-- but this is not a slow song really, and his paw on her back and their closeness suggest a slower beat than that to which they're dancing. If the music was different, it would be fine. "Th'fact you said it in th'first place," R'vain rumbles, fixing her in the glare of emerald fire and sterling white grin. "Challenge."
The pace of the music and the closeness between might be more easily handled by a surer dancer, but masked woman has already professed a lack of talent in that arena and she has so her steps are rather plain, swaying enough to keep up the pretense of a dance and remind him of her body beneath his hand by the subtle subdued shifts of her hips and the bends of her waist as they move together on the floor. She meets his glare with the steadiness of her gaze and her unchangingly sly smile. "How is it a challenge?" she asks, lifting her chin again, letting her lashes slip lower, languid for a beat or two of the music.
"Any time a woman implies y'got an agenda on her person," replies R'vain, taking on easily the obligation of leading their simple steps-- awkward as it may be to close-dance to the music the harpers have provided. "S'a challenge. Y'either get called out, or y'deny it." His shoulders twitch, a hint of the luxuriant, slow ripple which better represents his usual shrug, but would be ungainly for their dancing. "Just my observation. Y'want t'claim you're an exception-- " Well, she's welcome, but she'll have to face the sudden widening of his lascivious grin to do so.
The twitch of his shoulder is felt more than seen, and her hand flexes gently over it. She does face his grin, smirking back with the spread of her lips. Then she leans in again, angling her cheek to paralle his, to murmur quietly to him. "I wouldn't claim anything of myself," she says pressing closer still until their bodied brush together as they dance. "That would negate the point of the mask, wouldn't it?" Her eyes drop to his neck, lashes low as she draws in his scent with another long inhale. "I'll leave you to form your own impressions." She pulls her glance up to his mouth before finding his eyes, something quiet, waiting and well-contained in her green gaze.
R'vain bends his neck down and turns his head just toward hers, little enough so the nearness of their cheeks is absolutely unquestionable by those that surround them-- if anyone were so bold as to question. His grin splits to let out his tongue, which twitches over his teeth and slinks back in, all a seeming show for her eyes. A slow thundercloud's murmur, deep and lascivious, opens up his rich reply. "Mmmm. Y'ask me, y'want t'be an exception, th'mask'd be th'time." He pulls back just enough to meet her eyes; hers wait, contained, and his glint with facets of eerie fire.
Though he may not see it, with their heads so close, cheeks aligned and her gaze over his shoulder, her eyes close. Her red lids lower slowly to savor whatever sensations the moment offers her. They lift again and pull back as he does. Even this woman, even with the protection of her mark, cannot help but hesitate at those words. There is a stillness in the eyes that meet his, a green wall that holds her thoughts behind their unyielding steadiness. She all but forgets to dance, letting his lead, the gentle urgings of his hands and arms, be all that guides her through the motions. Her smile, careful and unwavering as the wall of her eyes, stays in its quiet smirk, a mask beneath the mask. She tips her face up to him and lets her lips part for a scant beat before asking, "And what would you suggest I do?" The hand on his shoulder starts to slip down to his chest, but it does not push him away, it seems instead to recording the feel of him under her palm, a small, intimate motion that would surely be overlooked by fellow dancers who are likely still boggling at the bodily closeness of the pair. A closeness that threatens to drift away as she test the hold of his hand and attempts to return their positions to something a little less noticeable, though still too close to be entirely appropriate.
"S'pose," replies R'vain, "y'could do anything." His hand resists the pull of her body-- only long enough for her to be sure that he doesn't want her to go. After two steps more of their close, close dance his grip submits and his paw slips back to the side of her waist. He glances down, like to spot her hand on his chest-- but when he glances back up his grin is knowing. Not just hungry. Not just leering. Knowing. Certain. It helps that he meets her eyes, and this time it's he who waits, and challenges.
"Mmm," she hums. A note to match that hungry knowing of his expression. She shows him one in return, eyes almost playful in their awareness, her smile no less teasing for how small the curve of it may be. "You would like that, wouldn't you. You'd like to see what I would do." Her voice is quiet, a purr from her throat. "How much I'd allow with my guard down and by inhibitions abandoned, under the guise of anonymity. How I might touch you then. The sound of my breath. The way my lips might feel. Yes," she says, promises. "You'd like that." She lifts one finger from his chest and stokes him with it just once. Her eyes watch him, her smirk deepens.
Her assertion that he'd like these things curls a smirkier shape out of the corners of his mouth. But while she purrs, R'vain just leads their dance, and watches the green eyes behind the mask, listening-- watching-- and maybe more the latter than the former, as if now that he has the certainty he's silently assured her he has, he's more interested in or able to pick up physical cues. "Who wouldn't," he rumbles, dismissing all of her promises-- threats-- with those two simple words, hardly a question at all. But this he leans in a little, the paw upon her waist savoring a long stroke-- his fingertips find the boning of the corset beneath the fabric of the dress and press between those struts, to try to make her skin know his touch-- and this he says quite softly, raspingly, low. "Y'implyin' I got an agenda on y'person, again."
She feels that stroke at her waist and answers it by pressing her palm to his chest as she slides her hand back up to his shoulder, a touch for a touch. That he has only those two words for her promises doesn't seem to worry her at all. There is still unflappable confidence in that small twist of a grin. Her lashes are low over the heat and teasing of her gaze. "I don't think I was implying."
"No," says R'vain, and that is the last thing he rasps in a soft voice, something approaching gentle. The rest is a growl, the sort of growl that ripples through him, a vibrato rumble available to anyone in contact with him, and the more so if they're near his chest. He tightens his paw upon her waist, an encouragement to /feel/ him talk. Why listen? "Y'weren't. Y'were sayin' I'd like t'feel you squirm. T'hear you whimper. T'smell you-- " Why listen? Feel him. He bends his head beside hers again, and inhales a breath so deep his chest swells, his shoulders square. And still his feet move, in these same dance designs.
The lean body under his hand offers no resistence, drawn in and bending to him to feel the vibration of his voice rumble through her like an earthquake, to let him feel the slender softness of her body in return. It parts her lips to release a small sigh for his ear alone. "To taste me," the masked woman whispers for him. As he breathes in she does the same, closing the space between them with the simultaneous rise of their chests. "But you can't." She spares a glance for the couples that dance around them, letting 'here' and 'now' go unspoken.
R'vain does little to keep his voice low; what he /does/ do is completely ignore her spared glance-- though he cannot, with his attention so solely upon her, have missed it-- and bend his head even closer beside hers, to speak directly to her ear. "In a way," he informs, as the music descends from the crest-- past some time ago-- into denouement, "I have." Then he draws back his head, taking on once more the proper position for their dance, even allowing space between them as it should be. Unlike the prim moments a few minutes ago, he is this time anything but cold in his silence; he faces her with hungry grin, urgent brows, burning stare.
A short breath from the masked woman's lips is amused, some voiceless laugh for tastes taken, admitting to nothing but not bothering to deny either. She slips from against him as his arms relax, mirroring his return to a more acceptable distance. Her smile is brighter now, still wicked but warm as well. As the music drains away and they come to a stop, she slips further from him. "'Til we meet again, Weyrleader," she says, something cheeky growing in her grin. Her fingers sweep lightly from his shoulder and go soft in his hand, ready to be released.
The Weyrleader has, from the masked woman, one last requirement. He lets her slip from him, all but those fingers in his hand. He lifts them, bending her knuckles across his forefinger as he draws them toward himself. She'd know, surely, what he has in mind. But it's harmless enough-- he bends his head, kisses her hand. His eyes remain upcast, watching her all the time. Then she's free, and he inclines for her a deep nod, not at all a bow. Then he turns away, shouldering through the crowd toward the spread, for dinner /she/ interrupted once already, and will not interrupt again.