Featherlion

Stars flashed to life in some too-close distance. They burned her up for a few brief heartbeats, but in their wake they pulled a wave of ecstasy that made her eyes close and her heart race. Every particle of her body cried out, and she remembered nothing - knew nothing - but felt only the pleasure of the music, the dance, the beating in her skull.

Snatches of time were nothing but acidic blur, jumbled memories. Montages of images and sensations, and through it all, was him.
His whispering, shuddering, fingers twitching on dials, moving cords and wrapping light around everything but his face.

He was constant, dangerous, madness. He had the appearance of someone far from responsible, did nothing to hide the aura of seductive menace that clung to him, and spoke so low that his voice seemed to roll through her, brushing at her skin, twisting through her mind, where the beating drum lay.

It was all she could do not to run to him, twist her fingers in his hair and beg for his music, forehead pressed against his in desperation.

It was not his skin she needed, but the movement he gave her. The music was a gift, a harsh rap on wooden floors, a dizzying turn about the room with nothing and everything in the way. He gave her the beat inside her head.