Tahti's note: The story should be read as a fantasy, in no way did I mean to be disrespectful to Matthew Fox.
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The dress can be called anything from slutty to classy, depending on the intention of an onlooker.
Deep red satin hugs her hips and thighs snugly, the hem reaches her knees and the top is not particularly low-cut. But there is a high slit going almost to the underside of her buttocks and her back is completely bared, the outline plunging to the curve above her ass, delicate straps just barely curving around her shoulders.
She glances at her own reflection in one of the enormous mirrors in the hotel lobby. Almost not recognizing herself, almost ready to turn around and go change, aware of the looks she's attracting, aware of the nature of them.
Instead, she licks her lips and heads for the gallery, towards the gathering of the glitzy crowd.
There's one particular gaze she hopes will darken at the suggestion her dress entails.
The first time she saw him, adrenaline shot through her system like an electric impulse, but her body didn't betray her otherwise, not a muscle twitched. If anything, her posture became somewhat rigid, as she subconsciously straightened her back and concentrated on feigned indifference. It was at that exact moment that she stopped really paying attention to her colleague trying to get her engaged in some small talk, and she smiled politely. And kept throwing glances to behind her, across the room, at him.
It was too hard not to look, but she was careful not to get caught. Briefly, she thinks how pathetic it was to feel all engrossed in staring at the man, but he was not just another man and she couldn't fathom by what spin of events she found herself in the same room with him. Maybe that was not even him.
But then he looked up in her direction as if sensing her gaze and for a moment it was like he anchored her with his smoldering irises, for a couple of seconds she couldn't avert her eyes, like a deer blinded by headlights.
Feeling heat creeping up her cheeks, she ducked her head but was unable not to look up again after a while, to find his eyes directed at her.
"Hey, what's there?" her colleague, Julia, eventually caught up with her distraction and turned around to see what got her attention.
"Ah, him!" Julia smiled knowingly. "He's friends with the owner of the gallery," she offered.
"Kinda hard not to stare," she shrugged, hoping to brush it off.
"Careful there, girl," Julia said. "He's got quite a reputation."
"I'm not going there!"she hissed, the prudish part of her shocked that anyone could think otherwise. But she couldn't help the unwitting tingle in her lower belly at what it would mean, what it could mean. "I'm not like that!"
"No, of course. You're not." Julia mumbled apologetically.
The man took an unhurried sip of his whiskey and rested his shoulder on the wall, exchanging detached smiles with another guest. And she could tell, he knew; her eyes wandered to him as if drawn by a magnet, he saw it. But she kept her distance and did her best to pretend she wasn't looking, and that made him look.
This is why she's here now, this is why she came back tonight. Why she's wearing this dress.
Right from the entrance, several men ogle her, with openly sly smirks as if they already picture themselves between her legs. She looks around discreetly, scanning the surroundings for one familiar face.
The sense of both relief and panic washes over her when she encounters it, telling her she doesn't have a fucking idea what she expects to happen, or no, there's not much use convincing herself so anymore. She has a very clear idea of what she wants from him and it scares her, scares her like an urge to reach for a stimulant scares an addict. She doesn't want to want it but it's beyond her control, and she knows how wretched she'll feel if her plan backfires.
Heart thumping in her chest, she makes her way to the bar, having to go closely near him. Her eyes are firmly trained on the space ahead, even if not really seeing much, so his reaction is lost on her, she hopes he noticed her at all.
You're so stupid, Alice, she tells herself for a hundredth time, ordering a Margherita, ironically, and feeling the breeze from an open French window a little cool on her bare back.
The drink unfolds in warm fuzzy current inside her, and she works up the courage to turn around, and nearly gasps, because he's right behind her.
For a moment, he doesn't say anything and just holds her gaze with a shadow of a smile, his pupils dilated in the dim light. He's quick, she's got to give him that, having faultlessly sensed a willing prey. She knows, she stands out among the conservatively dressed snobbish women here, she knows no one's outfit screams 'do me' like hers, and she knew -- she sees that now -- that he'd pick on it, acting territorial if nothing else.
"You were here last night," she hears him speak, his tone somewhat mellow, calm.
She nods, returning the little smile and cocking her head. "I was."
He studies her wordlessly for a while longer and she chooses to remain silent, her thoughts racing, if she should acknowledge him somehow or not.
"You'd like to dance?" he asks abruptly, making her want to grin madly, but she just nods again and then a warm spasm jolts through her insides when his hand lands on the small of her back, just below the rim of her immodest dress. It's a brief touch, to motion her towards the dance floor, where several couples sway to the rhythm of a slow piano melody, but the spark ignites an avalanche of desires for it being multiplied and intensified.
He leads her to a faintly lit spot by the window where she can't make out the exact expression on his face, but it doesn't matter, because his hand comes back to the still tingling spot, and the other one takes hold of hers in a sure clasp.
It feels even better than she could have imagined. His sturdy form somehow engulfs her, but it's not intimidating or patronizing. She feels alert and warm.
Steadily, he pulls her closer, until their bodies touch in the middle, her stomach pressed to his, his thigh maneuvering itself in between hers impudently. She doesn't trust herself to look up to his face as he leads the slow dance. What it would be like to have him lead her into oblivion while he pushed himself inside her?
Alice's grasp on his hand tightens and her reason gives up on reminding her how ridiculous the thoughts are.
"So what did you say your name was?" he asks, the words tickling her ear.
"I didn't," she mutters into his chest. "And it's Kathy," she lies. The fake identity making it that bit easier to follow through with the game she has set. "Yours?"
She looks up to him in time to see him chuckle.
"You can pick any that you like," he says, playing along, even though she tells herself there's no way he knows her real name.
"Your own is fine," she tells him, meeting his gaze defiantly, feeling his hand creep up a bit on her back, so his thumb is brushing against her bare skin there.
"Oh, so you know who I am?"
"I know who you are," she answers, not breaking their gaze, and wondering what the hell possessed her to act like this. Like she knows what she's doing.
