The song was drawing to a close, and the guitar riffs were already beginning on the next. Quatre let his hold relax, though his hand stayed on the small of her back. He jerked his chin, pointing off the dance floor, and mouthed - drink? - knowing she’d never hear him over the music. At the lift of her lips, he guided her to the refreshment table.
It wasn’t even ten, and the cotillion ballroom was crowded, its fans doing little to alleviate the heat of the many moving, jostling bodies. Even as he sipped his punch, Quatre formed his plan, one he was certain Dorothy would be agreeable to. Dorothy turned from watching the dancers, and he flushed, his mouth parted to ask. Her eyes narrowed and slid away toward the opened door to the parking lot. His cup tumbled over, the remaining punch staining the white tablecloth, but by then, they were moving away.
On the entryway steps, Quatre shoved his hands in his pockets; temptation inches away, and too hot to touch. "Would you," he started, looking away from her to the lot, searching for his car, "like to go for a drive?"
She didn’t say a word, but slid her arm through his and inclined her head. He accepted it as a yes, and held his arm still as her breast rubbed against it. The walk to the car was both too long and too short, delicious torture of being too near, and yet, not close enough.
Five minutes down one of the lake roads, in the drive of a family friend not yet arrived at the lake, Quatre pulled the car around back, behind the house with a view of the lake, hidden from the road. He sat listening to the engine cool, insects buzz and chirp down in the reeds and Dorothy’s dress crinkle as she shifted. He turned and she was there, her hand already rising to his face and he leaned closer. Her breath was warm and smelled like the punch she’d drank, but her eyes were closing and their lips were meeting and suddenly it didn’t matter.
An eon in minutes, time was moving too fast. Dorothy was pushing on his chest, murmuring words in his mouth. He was pressing her against the door on her side, his hands attempting to infiltrate the dress barrier, the window behind her fogged.
"No," she was saying, and he pulled back, closed his eyes and sucked oxygen for his brain.
"Dorothy," her name a whisper, a thought, a plea.
Her hands were on his chest, his shirt undone and her nails raked soft furrows to his waist. "Your family won’t be back until Friday, right?" she was asking, fingers tracing the hard bulge he couldn’t mask.
Quatre swallowed and tried to make his tongue work. Instead he nodded.
"Good," she said, and smiled.
It was the first time he nearly crashed his car driving two houses away.