Aside from the briefest of observations, she hardly had time to notice what her partners looked like. Her appraisals were finished with every turn, started fresh with the next. Even when a man did please her, there was no way to move on the interaction. The leader would call out to switch, and she’d be given to the next dancer. Still, she couldn’t help but feel a wash of anticipation at the dim prospect that she would be matched with someone who not only suited her moves, but also passed her stringent critique system. Although it hadn’t happened lately, that didn’t mean it couldn’t. Maybe he would be here again. Perhaps, he would notice her this time.

To the sounds of “Jump, Jive, and Wail,” Clara found herself with five different men in a row who failed to please her. Handsome, but a poor dancer. Fine-looking, but much too short. Sweaty. A groper. Bad, bad hair. Then, finally, as the leader called out for only the experienced lindy-hoppers to take the floor, she saw him, watched as he moved through the crowd with that insolent look. He had heavy-lidded eyes, a tall, sleek body. Like a shark on the prowl, he cut cleanly through the waves of dancers.

“Fine threads,” a woman next to Clara said, also staring at the man.

“Racket jacket, pulleys, and a dicer,” her friend added.

A little too “in the lingo,” Clara thought as she refocused on her dream man — but the women were right. His vintage zoot suit looked as if it had been made for him. The suspenders flashed when his coat opened, and the fedora added to his high-class appearance. He had an unreadable expression on his face, a steady gaze that almost seemed to look through her. Then he tilted his chin in her direction, letting her know that he had seen her and that he approved.

Of course he approved, Clara thought. Her sunset-colored hair, dark red streaked with gold and bronze, was done in pin curls that had taken hours to achieve. She’d applied make-up in the manner of the time: bright matte lips and plenty of mascara. Her vintage dress was navy with white polka dots, and it cinched in tight on her tiny waist. A pair of stacked heels that were sturdy enough to dance in, but high enough to make those moves look even more complicated than they were, completed her outfit. With a single tilt of his head, the man let her know that he’d picked her, and she waited for him to arrive at her side. The girls nearby twittered in hopes that he was coming for one of them.

“I’d let him into my nodbox,” one murmured.

A nodbox was a bedroom, and Clara agreed. She’d definitely let this man crease her sheets. But as the women giggled with delight, she wanted to tell them not to concern themselves with their nerves. The man didn’t have eyes for either one.

He was on his way to Clara.

She felt a rush of nervous excitement that started between her legs and flooded outward. It was rare for her to feel so self-conscious. She had a quality to her moves that came from within — a sort of radiance on the floor that couldn’t be taught. This man had it, too. That’s what she’d been drawn to. Dancing could be a form of foreplay, but at most of these swing sessions, there simply wasn’t anyone she wanted to go to bed with. Sure, she was picky when it came to her men — both her dance partners and her bed partners. That wasn’t a crime, was it? If you chose the right person — for either activity — the results were much more pleasing.

As a new song began, Lilly Faye and her Fire-Spittin’ Fellas jumping into the groove, the man reached her side. He didn’t say a word, simply put one hand on her waist and steered her onto the floor. This time, she wouldn’t be passed onto someone new. She and her lindy shark would be partnered for the entire song. Knowing this, she took her time checking him out. Up close, he was even more attractive. Those dark liquid eyes, like a silent film star’s, were infinitely expressive. A deep, inky blue, they shined beneath the crystal chandelier. His hands were large, and firm, and they maneuvered her through the moves with expertise, but didn’t roam where they didn’t belong. That was a surprise. Often men took the opportunity to fondle a partner, something Clara generally found distasteful. Now, she realized, she wouldn’t mind if his hands wandered down a bit, if he tried a little stroking as they glided together.

Clara was a good enough dancer that she didn’t generally have to think while she moved. Her feet followed the lead of her partner. But this man was making her work for it, executing several difficult steps from the very beginning, forcing her to concentrate. She forgot about what she hoped he might do, and focused on making sure she was in step with him.

Other dancers spread out to give them some room. It was as if the people nearby could sense that something big was about to happen. And it was. As the first song blended into a second, and a third, the duo found their zone and worked it. When her partner flipped her into the air, she let out a little happy squeal, something totally unlike her. For the first time, the man smiled. It was as if a sculpture had smiled, the marble set of his expression melting. For the rest of the dance, there was an ease between them. The moves came more naturally. She no longer had to second-guess him, to think about where he was going. Instinctively, she followed.

When the music stopped and Lilly Faye and her Fellas took a quick breather, Clara followed the man down the hallway from the main ballroom into a small, unisex bathroom. No, this wasn’t something she’d normally have done, but her heart was racing at the thought. If he could dance like that, just imagine how he might make love. She watched as he locked the door behind them.

In the main ballroom, they could hear the music from the sound system. Someone had put on a CD by Big Bad Voodoo Daddy, and it was loud. People were headed out to the bar at the back of the ballroom, and voices lifted as spirits flowed. Alcohol mixed with dancing could make people rowdy. Clara was relieved not to be out there with the throng trying to make small talk.

The man lifted her up, and she kicked out her heels automatically, thinking he was still dancing with her. He wasn’t. He set her down on the edge of the blue-and-white tiled sink and cradled her chin in one hand. Face to face, he was even more beautiful. His full mouth, lips almost indecently full for a man, came close to hers. Kissed hers. Shivers ran through her body, and she closed her eyes and felt herself float away with his kiss, not even noticing at first when his fingers moved to the front of her dress and began to undo the tiny pearl buttons — buttons it had taken her 10 minutes to fasten before the dance. She remembered standing in her bedroom, looking at her reflection, wondering whether this man would be present tonight — and whether he would like what she was wearing.

Beneath her dress, the vintage apparel gave way to a modern underwire lace bra and panty set in crimson silk. The man stroked her breasts through the bra, gently, before unfastening the clasp and letting the racy lingerie fall to the floor. When she opened her eyes, she could see her reflection alongside his in the mirror across the way, and she focused on how dreamy they looked together. The perfect match. This was how it was meant to be.

The man took off his hat and set it on the counter. Then he tilted his head and watched her as she slid entirely out of her dress, standing before him now in ruffled panties, her garters and hose, and heels. Although he didn’t speak, he seemed to want her to leave the stockings on, because he quickly turned her so that they faced into the mirror above the sink, and he lowered her underpants and waited for her to step out of them. She watched in the mirror as he undid his slacks and opened them. She could see a flash of his boxers, polka dots that matched her own dress. Wasn’t that another indication of how perfect they were together?

Clara felt him lean against her, felt the length of his cock pressed against the skin of her heart-shaped ass, and she sucked in her breath. The silk of his boxers brushed the backs of her thighs, and now she sighed at the sensation. It was at this moment that he gripped her waist, letting her feel how ready he was. His cock was large and hard, and it moved forward, knowing its destination. Without a word, the man slipped it between her thighs, probing the wetness that awaited him. She’d gotten excited during their dancing, and the slick lubrication made it easy for him to part the lips of her pussy and slip inside. Just the head. Just a taste.

The sounds of the band started up in the other room, and to the lindy beat, he began to fuck her. Clara felt as if they were still dancing. Making love to him was as intricate as when he’d flipped her in the air, twirled her around him. Her heart raced with each stroke of his cock inside her, and she felt as if he were opening her up. Both to his throbbing sex, and to the music that swirled around them.

The bathroom was done in a deco style, creating an atmosphere like a fantasy come to life: the blue tone of the mirror, the tiled walls that made even her sighs echo and reverberate around them. Although he remained silent, the man seemed pleased by the way she moved, now rocking her body back and forth, helping him to reach the finish. He locked eyes with her in the mirror, and for the second time in the evening, he smiled. It was such a dreamy smile, touching the corners of his lips and moving to sparkle in his eyes. She felt the connection flow hot between them, knew that she had been right about waiting for him. There was a feeling of destiny as he slid his hands up her bare arms, stroking her skin, sending a fresh wave of tremors through her body.

She liked the silence, the lack of discussion during the act. Some boys talked through the whole thing, and that ruined the effect. She wanted mystery, magic — and with him, she had it. The act shouldn’t be destroyed with a lot of chitchat. She felt that way both about sex and dancing. Some men wanted to talk instead of lindy. If you danced correctly, you could have a whole conversation without opening your mouth.

This man seemed to know that. He understood, not saying a word as he filled her with his cock, held her gaze with his expression. Now he was tricking his fingers along her breasts, pinching her nipples between his thumb and forefinger to make her moan and arch her body against his.

Oh, yes, that was the way to do it. To the sounds of the music, in the twinkling light of the small room, she strived to reach climax in synchronicity with him. She wanted the ride to feel as good for him as he was making it feel for her. She knew he must be growing more excited, but she couldn’t tell from his face. Impishly, she squeezed him tight with her inner muscles, watching for his expression to change.

His eyes closed, long lashes dark against his pale skin, strong jaw set as he held her tight. Yes, it was going to happen. Now. She could sense it. And she closed her eyes, too, as those pulses of pleasure flooded through her, finally gripping onto the edge of the sink to hold herself steady.

The best part happened then. He didn’t withdraw, remained inside her, and she could feel him growing hard again, almost instantaneously. She sighed with pleasure as he extended the ride, this time taking her harder, faster, so that she felt as if she might literally dissolve with pleasure. All of the sensations were heightened, and when he brought one hand between her legs, plucking her clit with knowledgeable fingers, she came against his hand, biting her bottom lip hard to keep from actually screaming with pleasure. She felt weightless, as she had when he’d tossed her into the air. The thrill of it brought a flush to her cheeks, a sheen to her eyes. When she looked in the mirror, she seemed transformed.

They stayed locked together for several moments, and then he pulled out and tucked himself back into his suit. She expected him to look altered, as well. After something as spectacular as that, shouldn’t he appear changed? She was surprised to notice that he hardly looked rumpled at all. His shirt was still cleanly pressed, the fine crease on his pants in place. But she felt suddenly exposed, with her bra and panties on the floor, her dress a puddle of polka-dotted fabric. It would take her a bit to sort herself out. He seemed to understand this. He gave her a final kiss and a wink, then nodded with his head for her to fasten up her clothes.

He would meet her outside, she guessed. She watched him leave, then hurried to lock the door behind him, her heart pounding so loudly that for a moment it sounded like the drum section from Lilly Faye’s band. Her fingers trembled as she buttoned her dress, and it took her longer than it had earlier in the evening. Misbuttoning and starting again, desperate to finish so that she could get back out on the floor and dance with him again.

Back in the ballroom, as a new song began, she was certain he would hurry to her side, would lift her up in the air so that her dress twirled as it had been meant to. Her crimson ruffled panties would show, and the scent of sex would waft around her like perfume. From now on, they would be partnered together, showing off for the rest of the crowd. They would go back to her place that night, and in the morning she would take him to her favorite vintage store on Third Avenue. Would try on clothes for him. Would let him dress her. There were so many things they could do together.

But when she exited the rest room and saw him standing by the wall, he didn’t seem to focus on her, his eyes roaming the crowd. She wanted to wave her hand up, to call out that she was right here, waiting. The two women who’d stood next to her before were now at the bar across the way, and Clara watched, dismayed, as the man turned in their direction. The girls were aware of his fixation, and one let out a high, flirtatious laugh that reached Clara even above the music. The man adjusted his suspenders in a practiced, casual move, then fixed his hat so that it tilted rakishly forward.

The room blurred in Clara’s vision, as she realized that, like a shark, he was moving again through the water of the dancers. After another kill.

Ann Blakely is the co-author of the best-selling book The Other Rules (Masquerade, 1998), a spoof of the dating guide The Rules.