Author: xxx evilgrin xxx
Rating: NC 17 het, consensual
Fandom: A Man Apart
Disclaimer: A Man Apart, and Sean Vetter, do not belong to me. No money is made from this, and no harm is intended. Jeanette Vetter is my own character, a creation in “I Can’t Let You Go”
Summary: Jeanette had danced with him once, on the porch, and a few times since the wedding, but wants to be better. They choose tango.
Pairing: Sean Vetter/ OFC (Jeanette Vetter, nee McLean)
Archive: VX, FDB
Feedback: feedback in this thread only, no shreds.
Author’s Notes: NJRD had me write a Sean fic once. Didn’t think I could do that; didn’t think I could like it so much, but now that pushy little bugger is in my head, always asking when I’m going to write about him again. And so, this one too is for NJ, without whom I would never have written about Sean in the first place. Smooches
Copyright © June 2007 xxx evilgrin xxx
The tango is a man and woman in search of each other. It is the search for an embrace, a way to be together, when the man feels that he is a male and the woman feels that she is a female, without machismo.
She likes to be led; he likes to lead. Disagreements may occur later or they may not. When that moment comes, it is important to have a positive and productive dialogue, fifty-fifty.
The music arouses and torments, the dance is the coupling of two people, defenseless against the world and powerless to change things. This is the best definition of the tango as a dance, I think.
Argentine Tango choreographer, Juan Carlos Copes
“Life is like Tango… sad, sensual, sexy, violent and quiet.”
The music was turned off as the lesson ended. High heels clicked across the hard wood floor, followed by the tinkle of laughing female voices that echoed high up into the exposed rafters of the dance hall.
The air was evening-cool; a desert-scented breeze that was borne through wide-open garage doors to catch the last of the summer night’s dying warmth. An impeccably dressed elderly Latino followed the rest of the dancers outside, clapping his leathered hands together quickly, to hasten their departure. His eyes crinkled upwards in a nest of wrinkles when I catch his eye. He’s not hurrying us out of the room, but leaves us there. Alone.
The milongo, the carefully orchestrated social dance of the tango, is over. Tango, on a crowded dance floor, is a structured affair; it has to be, especially when there are so many other people taking part. The dancers all wheel in a counterclockwise fashion, and it’s not polite to stop, obstructing the motion of the dancers behind, but it is a great way to learn; that’s what Armando, the instructor, says. You get to see so many other steps, where if you went to a class with only a few other dancers, you might never learn them. I’m comfortable with this already and even picked up a few moves, things I’d like to try with Jeanette.
I complete one last turn, my hand at her back, her other hand held in mine, close to my shoulder. Jeanette balances on the toes of her deep red dance shoes, looking up at me, slightly flushed, her dark eyes sparkling with that quiet happiness, an inner sincerity that I love.
“You wanted to try out something new, Sean?”
I did. It’s something I had thought about for days, something I had dreamt about the more we came to dance.
Something about the red dress, the way the silk made beautiful waves in the air when she spun. I had watched her as she danced with the instructor, as he showed her a difficult set of steps.
Alvarez set us up with him. He said they were cousins but he has no idea of the exact relation, not that it matters. The man has more cousins than anyone I’ve ever met. Jeanette and I have only been married for a little more than a couple of weeks now, and it was his own personal wedding present to us, given on our return from our honeymoon.
Jeanette was a little shy; she always is, at least at first. She’s only danced with me a few times, and mostly that’s been private. The back porch of our house when we were first dating, the beach in LA on the first vacation we ever took. On the day we were married, but we might as well have been alone then, I saw no one else but her.
“He’s left us alone again.” Jeanette cupped my chin, her fingers tracing along the jaw, whispering against the stubble, as she leaned forward playfully against my chest, her silky voice quiet in the open space. Her skin is slicked in a fine sheen of sweat, a glow that brightens her whole body.
Threading my hands into her dark hair, I pull her back slightly, an exaggerated arch that exposed her throat beautifully, her chest out, hips forward, pressed firmly against my groin. She’s a natural, which is why Armando leaves us here alone. He knows that she’s a little nervous with so many other people close by; she never really relaxes during the class. It’s only when she’s alone, with me, that she is at ease; her eyes don’t dart to the other dancers, wondering if her steps are just right. Together, it’s just us, and she can be so brave.
The class is supposed to be for ballroom tango, but the minute that Armando saw us together, he said that wouldn’t be good enough. Jeanette had been mortified, thinking he wouldn’t teach us. Then he told us why. Armando told us that we would stay in the classroom, and learn the basic steps, but that afterward, he would teach us real tango. Argentine tango. He said that nothing else would be right for us, that nothing else could, in his words, show the passion we so clearly felt for each other, and as I watch her body drape over my arm, I have to thank him for it. Alvarez too.
We’ve been dancing here for two weeks now and lately Armando has been leaving us alone after class to work out the steps ourselves. Tango is like nothing else. Well, maybe not like nothing else. It’s like making love, out in the open with others watching. I get to show other people how I feel for her more completely than I could ever do with words.
The full range of emotions involved in love. Everything we feel is on display, unashamedly. I can tell her how much I love her, but there’s something about such a public declaration. It means so much more.
Walking through the steps, I arch her back further, her arm held out gracefully, parallel to the floor as we begin the steps. We don’t need the music; I doubt if we ever did. Armando says the music is in your heart or it isn’t. Sexy said the same thing; it made me laugh a little at the time, thinking how different the two men are.
Big Sexy taught me to dance, a lifetime ago. Big Sexy looks nothing like Armando, a tall proud Latino with more than a little pure Spanish blood. As different as the two men are, they would agree completely on dance. That life is meaningless where it is lacking; that love is expressionless without it. That it’s the way a man shows his soul to a woman.
I lead, Jeanette follows, but it’s not as simple as that. Like love, it’s more complicated, beautifully. There are no words, no verbal communication and, aside from practicing riskier movements, it’s all improvisation; she trusts me to lead, and follows without question.
Arched back as she is now, she could be seriously hurt if she fell, her feet tangled up in mine, but she trusts me. My forearm at the small of her back pulls her lower body tightly to me, her feet pinned by mine, and so she arches back, impossibly graceful, her opposite foot drawing a delicate shape on the floor. The ‘lapiz’, the ‘pencil’; a sensual shape drawn on the floor that also lengthens the muscles of her leg, the lines of her calf flowing like water.
As she deepens the arc, her neck is a delicate curve, her throat exposed, her body draped over my arm, presented fully to any that are watching. That no one is doesn’t matter, the dance is in the presentation, not the audience. I hold her out in front of me, poised in the mimicry of ecstasy.
We had practiced this before but didn’t have time to slow down and let each movement develop fully. Too many dancers behind to risk such an action, to risk hurting her if our timing wasn’t absolutely perfect.
Her dark red dress flutters up her thigh at the precipice of the movement; it’s here that she’s most vulnerable. Her eyes closed; she doesn’t need me to tell her in words what the next step will be. I’ll tell her with my body when the time is right, and she’ll trust me to guide her into the next graceful step.
A tightening of my hand is the only signal, and she lets herself fall fully into my embrace, as I pull and spin her body at the same time. My right foot sweeping her leg to the side as I pull her back against my chest. I can’t see her face, but I know her eyes are still closed and that’s she’s smiling, her head resting against my shoulder.
“Beautiful!” Armando has been watching us quietly from the darkened corner of the dance hall. “Absolutamente maravilloso!” He steps out from where he stood watching, crossing the distance between us.
Jeanette is pleased at the high praise, Armando is mostly quiet during class, and I pull her to her feet again. In the position she’s in, it would be difficult to do that gracefully without help. She’s shy, uneasy with the idea that she’s being watched, but Armando claps his hands sharply, and insists that we continue. “Una vez mas!” *(Once more)
“Sean…” Her first movement is shy, and I can tell she’s nervous, tucking loose strands of dark hair behind her ears, her dance steps stilted and constrained, it’s always this way, at first. Then she lets everything around her disappear into the background and it’s just us again.
“No talking, beautiful Nette, just dance with me. Let go.” Leaving no room for dispute, I move gracefully into the steps we had wanted to practice, taking her with me.
Again and again, we embrace and repeat the same sensual arc, her lower body pressed to mine fleetingly, repeatedly, until I think the pressure will drive me insane. To spin and pull her to me, her body held out for display, her lithe lines exaggerated as a subtle motion of my hand makes her breast jut further, or her hips swing more dramatically. In step with her always, my body is carved by the forms she takes. Together we achieve what alone would be strange or awkward; together it becomes something else, beautiful, sensual and raw.
Before long, we are both filmed in a fine sheen of sweat. It’s not the heat, pulled up into the rafters by the fans that rotate slowly in the torpid air. It’s not the exertion. It’s arousal. With every repeated movement, as we felt safer, my free hand roamed over her hip, her waist, her thigh. Wherever I could touch her, I touched her, manipulating her body this way and that as the dance continued.
As she fell again into her backwards, graceful arc, I broke the pattern of steps we had established and instead leaned in to kiss her throat. Licking beads of salted sweat from the curve of her throat, I trailed up to her ear, whispering against her heated skin. “If I don’t get you home soon, I’m going to have to take you right here, Nette.”
I can see her sexy grin even through my closed eyes, as Jeanette leaned back farther, laughing quietly, her hair a dark wave, as it finally broke free from the ties that held it. “Tell me the bad part of that again?”
She didn’t struggle to get back up but stayed in the shape I had molded her body into; waiting for me. Her hips shifted from side to side, a miniscule movement that barely fluttered the dark red silk of her dress in the still air, but it took forever until the pressure passed from one side of my groin to the other.
She knows exactly what she’s doing to me; she always has. Jeanette likes to push me a little. Not too much, just a little. She’s brave, in her own way. It drives me crazy.
I pulled her up again, my hand cupping the back of her neck to pull her in for a heated kiss. “Let’s call it a night, beautiful.” Our bodies skimmed close to each other, not quite touching, the electricity sparked between us in the open space.
Armando had vanished from where he had stood and watched us dancing; he must have felt it too, but I heard the large garage doors closing at the front of the dance hall and knew that he was locking up. He had left us alone to dance together. For the past couple of days he’s told us that we no longer need lessons; that he just loves to watch us dance.
Jeanette’s eyes blazed darkly in the low light, her skin aglow as loose tendrils of her hair fell past her throat again. “Back home, then.”
That phrase, the thought of going home with her, our home, still has the power to make me weak in the knees at the very idea. We stepped back again, a dull click of high heels against the hard wood floor. Our hands drop and find each other of their own volition, tangling together, and dance we continue from our first date.
I follow barely a step behind her, as we get closer to the changing room in the back, pulling my hand free from hers to rest a hand on each hip. She swayed softly under my hands as I walked behind her, our bodies brushing against each other and separating, only to touch again. Warm silk underneath my hands shifted against her skin smoothly. I love the feel of silk on her, and that deep red is enough to make my heart race.
What little light there is fades to velvet shadows and I let the thin curtain drop between the dance floor and the changing room. She’s braver, in the darkened space, turning around in my arms and reaching up to cup my face in her hands. I notice that her fingernails are the same red of her dress; I know that her toenails are the same colour.
Her eyelashes flutter slowly, seductive black fans in the low light; not a girly affectation at all, with Jeanette it’s completely serious, and absolutely sexy. Sinuous and graceful, Jeanette presses against my body, still standing on her toes, her arms slipping behind my neck. She does that completely subconscious thing where she sucks in her bottom lip, her teeth dragging over it, only to let it go again, fuller, wetter.
Her voice deepens just a little as she whispers to me, so daring yet so shy at the same time. “Maybe we don’t have to go home right this second.”
My heart speeds up a little, wondering what she has in mind. Jeanette loves public sex, as long as it’s not too public. She would never do it where everyone could see her for example, but this, where it’s public, but no one is ever likely to walk in, that turns her on. Like the balcony in LA during our vacation, or when we joined the mile high club on the way to Hawaii for our honeymoon.
My hands skim up over her back, following the curves of her dress, and get lost in her hair, pulling more of it loose, pulling her face up to mine. “What did you have in mind?” Her body shifts against mine, a whisper of silk across the taut bulge at my groin, making me moan into her hair.
Her heels lower back to the floor, no longer on her toes, taking a small step backwards, bringing me with her. Hips swing lazily and pull my hands with the force of gravity. We’re dancing again, a step apart, my hands falling to her hips, eyes closed as I think of her held above me that same way. She’s leading me this time and I follow as easily as Jeanette followed me earlier, needing no prompting.
I follow her through the dimly lit room until we’re nearly at the back door. We haven’t come back here, not since the first day of classes when it rained, usually leaving through the front doors with everyone else. Maybe if it was winter, we’d leave our coats back here. There’s a bare bulb overhead, burnt out who knows how long ago now. A row of hooks along the wall, with cubbies underneath. Jeanette continues to walk backward, past all of these, taking me with her, and I wonder what she has in mind.
Far at the back, my breath catches as the room takes a turn and opens up a little. There are some boxes for storage, some old dusty record crates and, at the back of the room under a dirt-streaked window, there’s an ancient chaise lounge.
There’s no way to tell what color it might have been at one point. Faded with time, darkened in the falling light of the room, it’s little more than a shape. As dark as it is, it makes me think of the red bench from the changing room, where Jeanette bought her bikini before our vacation. I had always regretted not taking her right on that bench, and dreamt about it several times since then.
Abrazo: The Embrace
“Nette?” I looked over at the chaise, and then back at Jeanette, liking the way her lips pulled up at the corners, her eyes flaring brightly before dropping, boldness and shyness both. I still don’t know how she does that; manage to be shy and courageous at the same time.
Her steps slowed, while she turned and walked backwards, the sway of her hips more exaggerated as she moved against my hands. At the lip of the overstuffed arm of the chaise, we caught up with each other, our legs tangling, our hips pressed against one another, and I knew what I wanted, what she wanted. To dance.
I stood straight before her, our bodies skimming over each other at all the points where she curved. The swell of her hips at my groin, her breasts, nipples hard through the filmy sheer silk, pressed against my chest. “Baila conmigo, hermosa Jeanette” (“Dance with me, beautiful Jeanette.”)
In her heels, we don’t have far to go for her cheek to press against my shoulder, her soft lips against the side of my neck. Breath fans over my heated skin, leaving goosebumps in the wake. Her hands caress over my torso, taking the longest path, pushing up my chest, around my shoulder, her other hand held out, waiting for me to take it in mine.
Our fingers interlace as the dance begins and she looks up at me again, awaiting my next move. Eyes locked on each other, where nothing else exists. We could be in the middle of a crowded room, and we would see nothing but each other. The embrace isn’t one solely of the body; we embrace everything about each other, shutting all else, the rest of the world, out. It doesn’t belong in the midst of what we have, what we share. Yet everyone who watches can’t mistake what’s there, that depth.
Fingertips trace over the edge of the silken fabric that draped down her back, skipping over skin, back to silk again. I press the flat of my palm over her spine and push down, humming low in my throat, caressing down her spine to the swell of her rear. Her breath speeds against my skin as she fights to keep still, waiting for me to lead.
Sacada: in which the leader displaces the follower’s leg by stepping into her space
We move as one, her body responding to mine without a sound. Our hips shift over each other in a whisper of silk as I step between her legs, one knee pushed up between her thighs, brushing sensually against her thigh wrapped in red silk. Without breaking our embrace, she pulls her head out of my neck, taking a long path that has her teeth nip across my jawline until she’s looking up at me.
She moans, a quiet sound under her breath, pulled from her when I press my thigh harder against her, feeling her heat beneath. I love to watch Jeanette as her eyes close, her throat arching again as her body moves against mine, and I know exactly what I want. To dance.
My hand knots in her mussed hair, pulling her head back further, exposing her throat, and we continue what we had begun out on the hardwood dance floor. I watch her soft smile, as she arches further, her breasts pushed out against my chest as she makes the most beautiful line a woman can make.
Throat exposed, I release her hand and trace my fingertips from the bow of her bottom lip. Tracing over her chin to follow the sensual lines of her neck, stopping briefly at the hollow before dropping into the valley between her breasts.
Her eyes close in anticipation, her breath shallow, fast, as she holds the pose. So much of tango is in this. This exaggeration for effect, that no one is here for me to hold her out for display, showing what I love so much about her, doesn’t matter, the meaning of the dance is still there. When I show that beauty, even here, alone with no one to see it, she knows that I see her that way too. It means everything.
She lets me pull her back farther, her hand tracing a graceful path along the back of the chaise as I lower her down. Jeanette keeps the bow shape, stretched over the padded arm of the chair until I lean over her, spanning my hand over her belly, pressing her into the plush fabric of the chaise.
Boleo: where the follower’s leg, through momentum, swings off the floor and into the air.
Arrastre: in which the leader appears to drag or be dragged by the follower’s foot
Gancho: one dancer hooks their leg around their partner’s leg.
Jeanette released her arched shape and draped back bonelessly, her leg swinging gracefully up from the floor. Red silk whispered up over her thigh again and I moved my knee out of the way, freeing the fabric. My hands continued their long journey across her body, over her belly, between her legs with a racing of heartbeats in time.
Jeanette’s smile grew a little wider, into her quiet, deep laugh. “I remember this moment, Sean.” She hadn’t forgotten either that night in the changing room either.
Red silk flutters as I push her dress up further, exposing the tiniest black g-string; one I had bought for her in Hawaii. Letting out a groan, I trace over the lines, one fingertip against the soft skin underneath. She had shaved. I didn’t think she would; it hadn’t even occurred to me when I had picked out the very skimpy piece of lingerie, that it would require her to be shorn.
Her hips arch up to me in invitation, as her quiet laugh becomes something else altogether, more velvet and sensual. Both hands slide up her hips, catching the fine string of her panties in my thumbs, changing direction, slowly pulling them down her legs. She pulls one leg up, close to my shoulder, and with her panties still caught, I caress over her ankle and down over her high heel, leaving the red shoes on. The image of her bare thigh, exposed all the way to her shorn pussy, is so sexy I have to close my eyes or I’ll come too fast, just at the thought.
“I think we’re about to make a whole new moment.” Hoarse with lust, I lean forward over her, the wet of her sex pressed against my erection; it’s more than I can stand.
Not forgetting our dance, I move to the next step, gently sweeping her leg out of the way with the edge of my foot, a graceful movement that brings us tightly together, my erection pressed solidly against her. Jeanette follows my lead and allows her leg to be swept out to the side, exposing her fully.
One hand on her thigh, I unbutton my pants, letting them pool around my ankles; the boxers are less graceful, but Jeanette stays in the pose we have created. Eyes closed, waiting for me to lead her once more.
As one, without words or direction, we move towards each other, graceful, our movements required no practice or innovation. Perfection down to the smallest detail. Pressing forward, I enter her in one smooth motion, our muted moans in tandem.
Caressing up the length of her calf, I sink deep, our moans quiet as I sink to the bottom. Jeanette arches her throat and my free hand drops beside her shoulder, bringing us closer together. Nipping her clavicle, dragging backwards, withdrawal; Jeanette doesn’t want me going anywhere either. Her inner muscles clench around me, an animal sound low in her throat, as she swings her free leg up gracefully, wrapping it around my waist.
The gancho is a movement seen nowhere else outside of Latin dance; something that no tango is complete without. Her ankle presses against my lower back and I close my eyes, thinking of the image of her red high heel pressed there. Hips slam back at the thought; we can do gentle, but it’s not what drives us.
The flush at her throat deepens, her head thrown back, as we move in perfect time with each other. No need for words or directions. Like our dance, we lead and follow fluidly, our bodies so in tune with each other that no words are necessary. Or needed or wanted.
Her heel presses into my skin at the apex of withdrawal, insistent, pulling me back. Hips tilt up, all her internal muscles caressing me; the ankle I hold in my hand offers resistance when I lean in too far. I’m pushing too hard, I want her too much, too fast, too hard. Passion delayed.
Volcada:rotating the woman around her axis, while her axis is tilted toward the man, causes her to “capsize” making the free leg “spill” tracing a figure on the floor
Easing out of her, letting her ankle drop, and reaching down for her outstretched hand are all one motion. Graceful movements echoed by Jeanette; her heel tracing a line down my thigh to the floor, her back a sinuous echo from the dance floor, and I know exactly what I want, where I want to lead her.
One small step back and I pull her with me. That we’re half-naked doesn’t matter; we’re back out on the dance floor, the sharp click of high heels as she steps closer until her chest presses to me again. Our hands touch, and the giro, a spin, begins; we were never going to be able to finish the way we were.
The bottom curve of her rear is exposed, silk brushing against my bare thigh and she’s falling, the motion the same as the one we had just been practicing out on the dance floor. With my pants in the way, I can’t sweep her leg out of the way, but it doesn’t affect the beauty of her steps in any way; Jeanette swings her leg out to the side, her calf flowing into her ankle in a beautiful line.
Rather than falling into position beside my knee, Jeanette goes through all the motions first, but drapes over the arm of the chaise. Where she would hold her head against my shoulder at the end of the movement, she instead turns her neck and looks back at me over her shoulder. The grin she tries to hide lets me know that she’s fully aware of the effect that she has on me. I’ve always loved the sight of her on her knees.
I’m late, by a heartbeat, falling into place behind her, and we resume the embrace, so much like the final act of our dance. On display, as surely now as we were out on the dance floor.
Hot breath fans against my chest as I drape over her, entry as smooth, as perfect, as passionate, as our motions when we are together. Jeanette bites her lip, to not cry out; we can’t, not here, not now.
We sacrifice grace for passion. Our bodies arch towards each other and press away. Like the tango, our chests remain close, frozen in the embrace, unwilling to part from each other no matter where our bodies take us.
Her fingers, interlaced with mine, squeeze and clench, her breath coming in shallow gasps. In this she leads and I follow, as we spiral out towards the edge, into the low light at the edge of the dance floor, where lovers go to dance alone. Just her and I.
Shuddering, her body tightens, the roles reversed; she pulls me to her and we both fall over the edge, coming in a bright white place of stifled moans and straining muscle. Desperate to hold the position for one moment longer. To dance a few minutes more.
La Resolucíon: the Resolution, the end of the tango
I don’t want to move, not yet, and stay draped against her back, feeling her breath slow beneath me. “Jeanette.” Her name a whisper as I press my forehead to hers. “Tomorrow is the last day of our lessons.” The thought made me sad; I had gotten used to dancing with her every night.
Jeanette wiggles against me, making a space to turn slightly, looking up at me with that blaze of heat I’ve grown to love. “So what are we taking next?”
Our hands find each other naturally, as we walk out of the dance studio. We could have driven here, but I like to walk with her. We always walk home afterwards. Sometimes we stop for coffee. We stand out a little, against the kids in baggy pants and wife-beaters, old fashioned almost. It doesn’t matter; we’re not here for anyone else.
Most of tango is walking. Even the steps are performed as the dancers walk around the dance floor, so our walk afterwards is part of the same dance. “We could just keep coming here, to dance.”
Jeanette slips her arm around me as we walk across the street to the crowded coffee place. “Forever, Sean.”