The world around them, despite the bodies dancing and shouting, had shrank to only the few feet of space they occupied. Oliver's body moving closer - too close - in tandem with Genevieve. Once or twice he'd picked her up to twirl her about, simply because it was fun and the alcohol encouraged him to do so. Everything seemed brighter, the worried of the world lighter and Oliver blissfully numb to everything that wasn't immediately in front of him.
They were pressed as close together as physically possible, Genevieve's perfectly athletic, feminine body - like silk over steel - felt simply right wrapped in Oliver's arms. He pressed his forehead to hers and smiled down, taking in every minute detail of her face. The way her lips parted made Oliver's knees weak, and he do desperately wanted to kiss her.. but that wasn't him. This wasn't Oliver. He didn't dance this way with other girls or take them home, even when things were rough.
He cupped Genevieve's chin with his hand and traced his thumb over the ridge of her bottom lip. Fucking hell. Why did she have to be so absolutely perfect? With a noise of frustration and a soft, almost pathetic chuckle at himself, Oliver stepped back from his dance partner.