by Nancy Warren
“Thank you for this,” she said, turning to him impulsively.
As though he’d read her thoughts, he said, “I think we both needed a break.”
She’d seen Blake in jeans and a scowl and thought he was gorgeous, but in a designer suit, which he wore with the same careless grace he wore jeans, and without the ungainly bulge of the cast, he was more than gorgeous. He looked elegant and sophisticated, but the rugged appearance of his features, a sense of the watchful warrior within him, and banked fires in his gaze, added a more earthy appeal to his looks. The combination made her breath hitch.
She loved the veneer of sophistication, but she also couldn’t wait to strip it off and mate with the animal beneath. He put his hand on her lower back and she let his warmth seep into her.
“Do you want a drink?”
“Sure.” Maybe something cool and wet would put out some of the flames licking her insides as she tried to work out where and how his surprise would take place.
Drinks in hand, they wandered among the eclectic crowd. It was one thing to hear Don Giovanni, or La Traviata blasting from his home or car CD player, that was surprising enough, but to see him here, in the opera house, dressed in designer clothes, tickets to Tristan and Isolde in his pocket, was…stimulating. And disconcerting. It was like finding one of those beefed-up entertainment wrestlers had a degree in advanced mathematics.
He must have sensed her puzzlement as she looked him up and down. “What?”
She shook her head. “I thought cops drank beer and watched football.”
He slipped a finger under a spaghetti strap, the lightly calloused pad scraping erotically over her sensitive skin. “And I thought bankers wore blue suits and smoked cigars.”
“I guess it’s the contrasts that make us interesting.”
“That and the hot sex we’re not having.”
She bit her lips to prevent herself from retorting. Their game had become so second nature she’d forgotten she’d started it to stop either of them from becoming emotionally involved. Of course it was crazy, and of course they were having sex. Some of the best and most inventive sex of her life. But it wasn’t making love. And that’s the only thing that kept her from running screaming into the night. Sex she could handle. Love was like nuclear power. Maybe it could be harnessed for useful purposes, but one slipup and… She shuddered.
“Cold?” His arm round her shoulders warmed her instantly. “Let’s go inside.”
The seats were perfect, and somehow she wasn’t a bit surprised. When he undertook a task, whether protecting her life or choosing theatre seats, he did it well. When the task was pleasuring her, she had to add a juicy adverb. Like superlatively well. She glanced at his hands as he ushered her into her seat.
She settled into her seat with a sigh, feeling as twitchy and on edge as though those superlatively talented hands were already on her body.
Opera was about passion and she’d never felt more in tune to the wild swings of emotion. Had never believed in the absurd idea that two people who started out despising each other could fall so deeply in love they’d sacrifice anything, even life itself. But tonight, she thought perhaps she did.
While the sounds of rustling dresses and muted conversation combined with the squeaks and thuds of an orchestra tuning up, Blake leaned over to whisper in her ear. “Go to the bathroom and remove your panties, then bring them to me.”
A sizzle of excitement skittered through her system along with a silent thanks to Blake’s sister, which allowed her to feel smug, knowing she was about to wipe the cocky expression right off his face.
She leaned in, so close the ends of his hair tickled her nose, and whispered breathily in his ear, “I’m not wearing any underwear.”
She trailed her tongue softly in a question mark along his ear, ending the point at his lobe, which was too inviting a target not to bite.
“What are you wearing under that dress?” he asked in a strangled whisper.
She smiled at him, wiggling her toes and fingers. “Nail polish.”
Whether from the nip on his ear or her pantyless state, she wasn’t sure, but he dragged in air as though he’d just reached the summit of Everest. One hand went to the knot of his tie as though to loosen it.
Feeling, under the circumstances, that he deserved to suffer even more, she angled her pelvis so her weight rested on her right hip and her left reached for the ceiling, leaving her backside, clad in nothing but the filmy black fabric, tilted provocatively in his direction.
“I ought to arrest you,” he all but growled into her ear, the arousal and frustrated wanting in his tone generating a corresponding want in her belly. She felt the heat of his gaze penetrate the dress and felt as exposed as though she were naked.
“What for?” she asked over her shoulder.
He rested a hand on her hip and her eyes widened at the heat coursing from his palm and spreading through her body to tickle and tease every sensitive nerve ending. “Torturing an officer of the law.”
“Sorry, sir,” she said meekly, glancing at him from under her lashes as she shifted until she was sitting properly. Or as properly as a woman without underwear can sit.
For a while she held the upper hand in this most exciting of sexual power battles. She’d thrown him so far off course he was sprinting to catch up. But he managed it, one-upping her nicely. Once more he leaned in, speaking in the same intimate tone he used when he was inside her body. “When I give you the signal, I want you to go to the ladies’ room. When you’re the only one in there, open the door for me.”
She bit back a moan as her body tingled and tightened. “What’s the signal?”
“I’ll squeeze your knee. Like this.” He demonstrated, smoothing his palm down the length of her thigh until it met her knee. Then he squeezed, gently but firmly, turning the area into a blazing erogenous zone. “Understand?”
Incapable of speech, she could only nod. The lights went down, but he didn’t remove his hand, merely rested it on her thigh, warm and connected, a constant reminder that she’d agreed to make a trip to the bathroom at his whim.
Then the overture began playing; Tristan and Isolde had begun. Sophie sighed, so conscious of her naked thighs pressing together, of her sex pulsing with insistent arousal. Blake didn’t do anything so tacky as try to caress her in the darkness; there was only his hand resting open-palmed on her thigh. But it was enough. A constant reminder of their unconventional rendezvous planned for the ladies’ room.
When would his signal come? Every time he shifted, she wondered. Would she ignore him? Or would she do as he’d asked and traipse off to the bathroom? Her brain hadn’t quite decided yet, though her body clearly had its own agenda.
And then Wagner seduced her mind and nothing mattered but the music flowing around her and in her. In quiet harmony, she felt the hum of desire, of connection, flowing back and forth between her body and Blake’s.
Tristan was taking Isolde to marry his king. They didn’t like each other, and yet… There was a potion that was supposed to be poison. They both drank it, but it was a love potion. Dislike, animosity turning to love. Could it happen outside of a dark theatre? Was it in fact happening here and now?
Tristan presented Isolde to his king, but, in spite of the danger, they couldn’t stay away from each other and made love, thinking they were safe in the darkness. But night ended, and still they clung together until they were discovered.
Sophie was caught up in the haunting beauty of the music, the passion of the lovers, knowing the opera would soon be over, when she felt Blake’s hand move slowly and deliberately down to her knee. In the darkened theatre she turned to him, saw the dark glow of his eyes, so hungry for her she felt faint.
There was no question of ignoring his need, it reflected hers so perfectly, the driving obsession to be together, now, while they still could.
She rose as quietly as possible and slipped past him, up the aisle and out into the lobby. There were lights there, and the grand
emptiness of a foyer between intermissions. For a second she was disoriented, then she remembered where she had to go. Her shoes tap-tapped across the marble foyer in counterpoint to her pounding heart.
The door to the women’s washroom was heavy and ornate, her arms weak and shaky as she pushed it open.
She gasped as she saw herself reflected in the gold-framed baroque mirror that sat above sinks set into what looked like an antique buffet. Behind her was a plush red Victorian settee and behind that stretched a discreet hallway with a dozen or so bathroom stalls which women would spend the entire intermission lining up for, but now were blessedly empty.
She took a moment to calm herself then realized she’d need several hours for that, with Blake nowhere in the vicinity.
The opera house had thoughtfully placed speakers in the bathrooms, so she could hear the opera almost as clearly in here as she could from her seat. Isolde began to sing. Softly, sweetly.
Sophie breathed deeply, feeling as though her blood were flowing in the same rhythm as the aria. Her eyes opened. The Liebestod. Of course. Two years of college German wasn’t much, but she thought that translated to love in death. Which naturally made her think of the French term, le petit mort. The little death of orgasm. Which naturally reminded her that Blake was at this minute outside the door with love and death on his mind.
She crept to the door and opened it.
Blake slipped inside like a shadow.
There were no words. They needed none. Isolde sang to her lover, and Blake pulled Sophie to him, wrapping his arms around her and bringing his lips down to meet hers.
Tiny explosions burst and popped throughout her body as they kissed, straining together, almost as if they wanted to climb into each other’s skin.
Blake turned her until she was facing the mirror, then stepped behind her. She gazed at their reflection. Her eyes looked huge in the mirror, her lips wet and pouty. She watched him watching her, almost felt the impact of his gaze like a physical touch. He only had to stare at her breasts, rising and falling with her rapid breathing, and they swelled and budded, aching for his touch. His gaze moved lower, to where her panties ought to be, and the heat settled there, intense and urgent.
The music swirled around her full of passion and forbidden desire. She saw herself in the mirror, on display for him, watching, wanting, waiting. His touch still shocked her when it came. His fingers running down her throat, so her soft moan hummed against them, tracing her breastbone and then slipping, so slowly, beneath the straps of her dress to caress her aching flesh.
She saw her eyes darken, her nipples harden and her breasts rise and fall with each shallow, panting breath. It was like having a panic attack, except it wasn’t panic, but excitement stealing her breath and sending her system into chaos.
With one hand she held on to the back of the settee, needing the support to remain standing. With the other, she reached behind her to skim her hand along Blake’s thigh. She watched herself touching him in the mirror, her nails painted with cinnamon-colored polish; her fingers, long and pale against the dark wool of his suit pants, trailed from the outside of his thigh, skimming over the hard quad muscle, reaching the softer inner thigh. His breath was almost as uneven as hers when she slowly and deliberately cupped him, running her curved hand up and over the gorgeous hard length of him.
Breath hissed out between his teeth and she glanced up to see an expression almost of pain cross his face. Still without a word, he took her arm and led her down the corridor to the last bathroom stall on the left and pulled her inside.
And the music was rising, gaining in intensity. She quivered with need, the feel of him imprinted on her palm. Her hips were moving, she couldn’t seem to stop them, caught up in the music, in the driving need to have him inside her and moving to the same passionate rhythm.
He shut and locked the stall door, kissed her once, long and slow and deep, then turned her slowly until her back was to him. She whimpered with frustrated longing.
“Shh,” he whispered, dropping soothing kisses down the length of her neck that didn’t soothe her a damn bit, as he must have known.
The ache in her womb was growing. Since the high heels pushed her hips out, she was able to exaggerate the pose by tipping her pelvis up and back until she found his groin. Then she swayed, teasing him as her bottom swept back and forth across his erection. The only trouble was, as much as she knew the movement was driving him wild, it was driving her just as crazy.
She felt a breeze against her calves, the fabric trailing mistily against her flesh as he raised her dress. Oh, yes. She slipped her legs apart in anticipation, felt the cool metal of the stall partition against her hands as she braced herself. She bit her lips, almost weeping with the need drumming inside her, becoming part of the rising music.
Cool air hit her where she was so very wet with anticipation and she gasped at the shock of sensation, then the gasp turned into a long, wailing moan as she felt his erection slip between her legs.
He entered her so slowly she felt each inch stretch and widen her clinging passage. Her legs were trembling, and, when he was buried all the way inside her, his hips pressed against her backside, she felt his trembling, too.
Of course, he was totally overtaxing his barely healed leg, but she didn’t think that was responsible for all the tremors.
With her dress bunched between them at her lower back, his hands were free and he let them roam until one hand touched and squeezed her breasts, the other slipped down to touch her clitoris, so swollen and sensitive she cried out. It was just the first cry. She knew there were lots more louder cries lining up in her throat. She felt like a champagne bottle about to blow its cork. Fortunately, the music was so intensely passionate—and loud—she thought she’d get away with her own special harmony.
She smiled at Blake’s foresight in bringing her here.
She waited for him to start thrusting in earnest, giving him a little nudge with her behind in case he was somehow waiting for her, but he surprised her by putting a hand over her mouth. It was the hand that had been between her legs and she could have wept with frustration at having that sensuous touch disappear.
She felt her own wetness against her mouth, inhaled the scent of her own desire. Couldn’t he tell she was too close to play games? She nudged at him with her hips. Why wouldn’t he let her go? Let her outsing Isolde as desire overtook her. What kind of sadist brought a woman so close to mind-blowing satisfaction and then shut down?
Then she heard the click of metal on metal and her eyes flew open. Someone else was in the bathroom. He must have noticed what her desire-fogged brain couldn’t.
They waited, still and quiet, though her pounding heart sounded like a jungle drum in her chest, and she couldn’t control her heaving breaths. He felt huge inside her and so warm. He didn’t thrust, but made tiny rocking movements that kept them both on the edge. She could have sworn his penis had a built-in G-spot detector the way it kept nudging her just there. Luckily he kept his hand over her mouth, muffling her tiny sobs of pent-up excitement.
The toilet flushed.
She had to get a grip before she lost all control and embarrassed the poor woman out there. She watched her own hands, fingers splayed against the cool beige metal of the bathroom stall, the cinnamon-tipped nails shiny and sophisticated, completely at odds with their position, the pair of them bare-assed in a public toilet.
She’d never been so turned on in her life.
Beneath the glory of the building soprano, she heard the more mundane sound of the taps going on and she pictured the oblivious woman out there washing her hands.
She felt his erection twitch inside her, and she squeezed her inner muscles around him. Kegels should be done every day, she knew, to keep her vaginal muscles toned. Great preparation for childbirth, and, since that was still far in the hazy future, she could enjoy the fringe benefits of a toned pelvic floor: increased sexual pleasure.
Of course, she hadn’t done her Kegels in a
few days. Now seemed like the perfect time to practice. She pulled up and in, sucking him with her vagina. She felt a ripple against her back and smiled wickedly, glad Blake couldn’t see her face. Rhythmically she continued her kneading, pulling movement, toning her pelvic floor so thoroughly she could give birth to triplets about now and bounce right back into shape.
Luckily his building excitement caused him to squeeze the hand still on top of her mouth because he wasn’t the only one suffering. As she squeezed and pulled her inner muscles around him, her own excitement mounted almost unbearably.
Her ears strained, waiting for the woman to leave. What was she doing out there? Sophie pictured her applying lipstick, fixing her hair, completely oblivious to the torment going on in the last stall on the left.
After an eternity, Sophie heard the door whoosh shut and in the next instant Blake pulled out and thrust into her, a long, hard thrust that made her cry out as the inner muscles tightened once more, this time with no conscious help from Sophie.
She pushed back against him even as he thrust into her, and now she understood why he’d called this piece a verbal orgasm. The intensity was building, almost more than she could bear. She felt the tightness of tears in her throat at the intense sweetness, the soaring notes. The same elemental passion that soared around them was echoed by the harmony of their bodies moving in unison, reaching up, straining for the peak.
His hand left her mouth and once more found that magic spot between her legs, stroking her even as he thrust with urgent, ancient rhythm into her body. She was sobbing as the sensation built, so she had to cry out or explode. She sang her own savage, instinctive aria that rose and blended with the soprano.
And then the peak, the long note, impossibly high, held impossibly long, on and on while she sobbed, everything in her responding. She was the passionate lover, she was the song, her body was part of the music, part of the story. She arched and strained, hitting the perfect note, so perfect it had no sound.