Hannah was smiling as she was escorted back to their table. Thomas was just coming back with refills of their drinks, an IPA for him, and a G&T for her. "Damn, babe, you should get out there. The band your company hired plays the best dancing music." She took a few gulps and sat down.
Thomas and Hannah met at Northwestern during their senior years and hit it off immediately. Both had come out of long-term relationships and neither was looking to get back into another but after two study sessions and one coffee date, they spent as much time together as they could. At first, they took drives out of the city, sailing on Lake Michigan, and just walking the city.
This changed after Hannah met some of Thomas's friends. They'd gone dancing and every one of the guys wanted to dance with Thomas's beautiful red-headed girlfriend. He didn't mind as Hannah showed no signs of flirting and he couldn't blame his friends. Hannah was stunning in just about every way. Clearest skin he'd ever seen, and cute dimples which she displayed whenever she smiled, which was often. She had full creamy cleavage, narrow waist, flared hips with a tight ass, and long dancer's legs.
Hannah wished Thomas liked to dance but he wasn't lying when he said he had two left feet. But then again, all his friends were there to take her out onto the floor.
Thomas was content to watch. He'd taken her onto the floor for two slow dances but he was too self-conscious to show his stiff attempts at fast dancing. It was interesting to watch the people dancing. He came up with generalizations about gender and race.
White guys just aren't that fluid. Not all but half the guys out there looked awkward. White girls were better, a lot better, especially Hannah. She was the best dancer on the floor, perhaps he was biased or he enjoyed wondering if her large breasts would bounce free of her low-cut top but he kept coming back to her.
Then there were the black guys. A much higher percentage were smooth and fluid. They seemed a lot more at ease flowing from one set of moves to another. The black girls were the best, aside from Hannah of course, their bodies writhing and flowing as if the music was controlling them.
Then he found himself noticing things he'd never wanted to, the guys Hannah dancing with were all showing pronounced bulges. The guys dancing with the other girls were showing excitement but every one of Hannah's partners was exhibiting a bit more discomfort. He smiled to himself, 'sucks to be you, buddy. Tonight, she'll be writhing on my cock,' he thought smugly.
Then he wondered, if the guys were getting hard, was Hannah getting wet? Were some of his friends getting her hot, some more than others? She danced closer to David, especially with her pelvis. Joe's eyes were glued to her chest and she knew it. But strangely, she seemed reserved and aloof with his two black friends, Chaz and Carter. Both were the better dancers in his group but Hannah danced just once with each. She came back to the table both times fanning herself and telling them she needed a break.
Over the next years, Thomas found himself wondering if his perfect wife might be a closet racist. She always found reasons to cut short interactions with his black friends but never once made a single remark that he'd consider prejudiced. It had to be a coincidence as Hannah was unfailingly polite to everyone.
Hannah smiled at her husband after putting down the cold drink, "I was thrilled you were able to get a job here, I mean, six figures to start? But you guys give the best parties. My company has quarterly boxed lunches," she sighed. "We need to get out dancing some more. I know you don't like it but you like the music and you told me you like watching," she said. Then she giggled, "I didn't mean it like that."
Thomas laughed. "Nope. Not into that. I like to watch you dance but when it comes to other types of sweaty couple's activities I prefer to participate."
Hannah leaned over and hugged her husband. "I'm a one-man woman. Even if you were one of those guys who likes to watch I wouldn't be into it," she whispered.
Thomas held his hot, sweaty wife and kissed her neck, "Good, though there is one thing I'd like to watch," he said as he stroked her ass.
Hannah looked at her husband and nodded, "Tonight. But I'd like to watch you at the same time," she grinned. She sat back down realizing she was bending over in her short cocktail dress, "Oops. I think I should have been a bit more careful."
Thomas laughed, "I could see you were wearing a thong out on the dance floor. So could half the people here."
Just then Mason Walters came over, "Thomas. You should get out on the dance floor. These guys are the best band they've hired."
Mason was the VP of operations and a few levels above Thomas. He was tall, fit, and impeccably dressed. As a black man, he also fit Thomas's observation of being an outstanding dancer. Thomas liked his interactions with him as he was on top of the latest technology, followed through, and always solicited feedback on major projects.
"But if you're not taking advantage of the music, perhaps you'd loan me your wife?" he asked, "that is if you'd like to dance?" he said to Hannah.
Hannah hesitated and then smiled and stood, "I'd love to." She smiled at her husband and then let herself be led out onto the dance floor. She danced close to Mason but not nearly as close as she had with her previous two partners. Thomas thought she'd beg off after the semi-fast dance when the next was a slow dance piece. Her body language looked as though she would but Mason's hand was on her arm and she let him pull her close...close but not touching. She'd been hip to hip just a couple of songs before the Larry. There was nothing inappropriate about the tall man's action, his hands gently cupping her lower back, their bodies inches apart, but as soon as the song ended, Hannah came back to the table fanning herself.
The following Monday, Thomas was making his coffee when Mason came into the common room.
"Thomas, it was good seeing you and your wife at the party Friday," he said. Then he paused as if wanting to ask something.
"What?" Thomas asked. "Did I do something...Hannah?"
"Look, I'm probably reading too much into this, but your wife seemed to be reserved...um, like she wasn't comfortable around me. Is this because I'm black?" he asked.
Thomas shook his head, "I get it but in all the years I've known her never once has she made a single racist comment. I can't explain it but she's always been like you said, reserved around my black friends. I think I should ask her what's up with that. I'll let you know what she says. I'm sure it's nothing."
Mason looked doubtful but nodded, "See you in," he looked at his watch, "the conference room in 50 minutes." He didn't sound convinced.
Thomas shook his head. It was impossible. Hannah was the sweetest, least judgemental person he knew.
That evening after knocking off the dishes, they sat in the living room. Thomas decided to just get to it so he looked at his beautiful wife, "Something's been bugging me for a while so I thought I'd just ask," he said softly.
"What," Hannah sat up looking suddenly afraid. "Did I do something?" she asked nervously.
