Dance: Dance of the Seven Veils

by Cris Anson

  Unable to resist, she turned, placing her aching breasts in the path of his palms. She wanted, no, needed his mouth suckling on her nipples right this minute.

  He backed away, sat down abruptly on the makeup bench. “It’s almost nine-thirty.” It came out a little breathless. “Do you need help getting your dress on?”

  Her eyes widened. Okaaaay, two could play this game.

  She stepped up to him, hands on his shoulders, then spread her legs and sat down on him, lap-dance fashion.

  “I might.” She wiggled around until her crotch seated itself right astride his hard-on then pillowed her breasts against his chest as she started kissing his jaw, his neck, his earlobe. The heat from his cock flowed through his trousers and up into her spread legs. She pressed down on the throbbing length of it, clenched her thighs together to squeeze his hips. His sharp intake of breath made her smile.

  “Come to think of it,” she murmured as she slid off his lap, “I can handle it.” Hips swaying, she strolled to the closet, lifted the silky black dress off its hangar, and slipped it over her head. Turning to the mirror, she adjusted the lay of the sleeves, settled the darts for maximum enhancement of her breasts, then leaned forward—exposing a nice bit of cleavage, if she did say so herself—and applied a bit of lip gloss on her slightly swollen lips.

  A spritz of Shalimar, then, “I’m ready.”

  Savidge hadn’t moved from the bench.

  * * * * *

  As they entered the basement club on Samson Street in old-town Philadelphia, a wailing sax trilled a counterpoint to a mocha-skinned woman making verbal love to the microphone in a sultry alto voice. The small jazz club was everything Lyssa imagined it might be. Tiny tables crowded around a small stage that also accommodated a young woman at an upright piano, bassist, and a drummer who right now was dreamily swishing wire brushes across the drumhead. After paying the cover and slipping the host something extra, Savidge escorted her to their reserved table along a wall, close enough to see without being blasted by the music, far enough from the bar to be out of the way, and within two tables of the postage-stamp dance floor.

  They ordered—a Guinness for him, a Kir for her—then settled down to enjoy the ambiance and the music. The noise level wasn’t loud enough to inhibit conversation, but somehow, words felt superfluous here. Lyssa found herself humming, and sometimes singing snatches of songs with the group. Their drinks arrived, they touched glasses in a silent toast, and listened while they sipped. The bluesy number was followed by an upbeat jazz number. Then the chanteuse left the stage and the combo slipped into a slow, dreamy rendition of “Smoke Gets in Your Eyes”.

  Savidge stood. “Dance?”

  The steamy look in his eyes sent shivers up and down Lyssa’s spine. She placed her hand in his outstretched one and followed him to the crowded floor. His right arm encircled her, palm resting on her bare back. He tucked her head into the crook of his neck. His left hand cradled hers close to his heart. She heard the deep hum of his voice as he murmured a few words of the song here and there.

  Lyssa closed her eyes in sheer bliss and allowed her other senses to take over. The heat emanating from him, chest to thighs pressed against her. His steady heartbeat beneath her hand. The scent of smoke and alcohol and warm bodies. Her Shalimar and his elusive male scent. The timeless music, with grace notes and riffs from the pianist in counterpoint to the low beat of the bass. She wanted to raise her head to taste the salt on his skin, the tang of Guinness on his tongue.

  Disappointment lanced through her when the music ended. Savidge bent down to whisper in her ear. “The ladies’ room is right beyond that door. I want you to go in there and take those red panties off.”

  Lyssa’s eyes popped open. She pushed against his hold so she could look into his eyes. They looked positively black in the low light, with only a tiny glow from the stage lights reflecting off them. “Wh-what did you say?”

  “Take them off. I want to know you’re sitting right next to me, or dancing right up against me, wearing nothing underneath but that tantalizing perfume.” He emphasized his request by walking her to the ladies’ room door. “I’ll wait for you.”

  “But where will I put it? My purse is back at the…”

  His smile was devastatingly seductive. “That tiny string you’re wearing will fit in my pants pocket and no one will ever suspect.”

  Lyssa let her eyes drop to his mouth. It had softened with desire. His tongue flicked over his lower lip, making her breath come out in short gasps. Her skin tingled all over. Could she? Did she dare? Who would know? What would George say?

  That thought was enough to put some starch in her spine. She lifted onto tiptoe and gave Savidge’s lower lip, the damp one he’d just licked, a quick nibble then turned to the ladies’ room.

  A few moments later, nervous and excited all at once, she opened the door a crack and peeked out. The look he gave her was dark, earthy. Lustful. His hand reached out and she thrust the scrap of red silk into it. Nonchalantly he slipped both hand and silk into his trousers pocket, then walked her back onto the dance floor, snuggling her right back into his arms even closer than before.

  “Imagination is funny…” he sang along with the chanteuse, who had returned to the stage. He murmured more words, like “bee” and “honey”, but all she could think of was the honey that was already pooling in her crotch from the most erotic thing she had ever done.

  The dance floor was even more crowded now, and she felt Savidge’s hand slide down lower on her back, then lower still to cup one of her ass cheeks and press her closer and yet closer to him. Her four-inch heels raised her high enough that she could almost feel his cock between her legs, but not quite enough, not nearly enough. She wanted him to hoist her up with his large hands under her butt so she could wrap her legs around him. A shudder zapped through her. Oh God, this was torture. Pure, unadulterated, sweet torture, to be so close to him, to know the heights of ecstasy to which they could soar together, and not be able to get any closer. She wanted to leave right this minute, wanted to rush home with him and fuck him right on the floor of her foyer, no, right in the bucket seats of his Aston Martin. She trembled with the need of it.

  “Cold?” he murmured.

  “No,” she managed to gasp. “Too damn hot.”

  His low chuckle reverberated to every nerve ending she possessed. He took his left hand from hers, leaving her palm against his heart, and stroked up and down her bare arm, then onto her bare back, trapping her even closer until she wondered if a strip of dental floss could fit between them. His right hand still clasped her ass. He rubbed his palm up and down across the silky black fabric, and she wondered briefly if he was trying to lift her skirt to show the other patrons what she was—wasn’t—wearing underneath.

  “Don’t you dare,” she murmured.

  “Dare what?”

  Lyssa decided discretion was better than giving him ideas. “Nothing.”

  Cheek to cheek, she could feel his mouth stretch into a smile. “I would dare,” he whispered, “but I want you all to myself tonight.”

  Her lashes fluttered down. Me, too, she thought.

  The music stopped. They clung to each other, still swaying from the echoes and images inside their brains, as other dancers moved past them. Reluctantly Lyssa pulled away from Savidge a millimeter or two. Their eyes met.

  “Let’s split,” he rasped.

  * * * * *

  “Wake up, sleepyhead.”

  Interrupted from a delicious dream of Savidge licking her inner thighs, Lyssa jolted awake. Blinking, she looked around. And saw the burled wood and leather interior of a luxurious automobile. The Aston Martin. Parked in her driveway, headlights and engine off.

  Oh God, had she fallen asleep on the way home?

  Her face flamed in embarrassment. How could she have committed such a faux pas? What kind of signal had she given the urbane, sophisticated, sexy Robert Savidge? That she was a country hick who couldn’t stay awake past midnight? Or
maybe he thought she couldn’t hold her liquor? She’d only had the one Kir at the club, and a couple of glasses of champagne several hours prior.

  Before she could apologize, he was out of the car and opening her door. “Why don’t you find your keys before you get out?” he suggested with aplomb.

  She did, fumbling in her purse, and handed the key ring to him, then swung her legs around and allowed him to help her out, as she wasn’t sure of her ability to stand unaided. Wrapping an arm around her waist, he walked her up the steps to the front porch.

  “Which is the key to your car?”

  Lyssa blinked again. “My car?”

  “I’ll have Yuki deliver it first thing tomorrow. Is eight o’clock good for you?”

  Her car. Her car was still parked in front of the office. Oh God, what would Evann and Bernadette say? She managed to shift her brain into thinking gear and pointed out the Honda key. Eight o’clock? Would Savidge still be here? “Eight is fine,” she stammered.

  He swiftly removed and pocketed the car key then found the house key and inserted it. He nudged the door open a crack and slipped the key ring back into her purse.

  “Come here,” he rasped.

  In an instant he had her pressed against the doorjamb, his mouth ravaging hers. She opened her mouth to his insistent tongue, both of them giving, welcoming, demanding. A groan sounded deep within him, and she answered it with a sigh of her own as she wiggled her body in an effort to get closer and closer still to his heat, to the heavy bulge straining against his trousers. His hands slid up and down her sides, thumbs skimming her breasts. He moved his mouth to her neck and took savage nips. Any thought of drowsiness fled from Lyssa’s brain, replaced with wondering why they stood on the porch making out like teenagers instead of stepping inside and ripping each other’s clothes off.

  “God, what you do to me.” Savidge’s voice was shaky, his breaths uneven and harsh in her ear.

  She felt his hands grip her upper arms, as if undecided whether to thrust her aside or pull her into him. He tipped his head, resting his forehead on hers, and breathed her name.

  Trembling with need, Lyssa strained to bring their bodies together again, but his hands were like iron pincers, keeping them no more than a foot apart. He took a deep breath, spoke her name again. She lifted her head to meet his intense gaze, his pupils dilated until no color showed in his irises.

  “I’m leaving for London in a couple of hours,” he finally said. “I’ll call you tomorrow night.” With that, he spun her around, pushed the front door open for her, and nudged her across the threshold. “Sleep well.”

  And he was gone.

  Feeling betrayed and abandoned, Lyssa stood in the doorway and watched until the red taillights of the Aston Martin disappeared into the foggy darkness.

  Chapter Nine

  “I don’t understand. Why all the secrecy?” Frowning, Lyssa stared at the black silk scarf in her friend’s hand.

  Kat shrugged. “Rules.”

  “Rules for what?”

  With what Lyssa could only characterize as a devilish look, Kat said, “You either trust me or you don’t, Lyss. I’m not going to throw you to the lions at the Roman Coliseum.”

  An image of Savidge in his gladiator costume sprang full-blown on the screen of Lyssa’s mind. Nah, she thought. Her friend wasn’t aiding and abetting him for nefarious purposes. Besides, Savidge was in London, damn it. When he’d walked away from the front door the previous evening, she’d been so bewitched, she hadn’t even called out to stop him. She’d had to concentrate on keeping her knees from buckling at the torrid goodnight kiss he’d given her after all that first-class foreplay on the dance floor.

  She’d spent the remainder of the night in restless sleep, bewildered at this change in his attitude. Almost as though he wanted them to have a normal dating relationship.

  Normal. That kiss was anything but normal.

  Her lips had been singed from his heat.

  And he’d left her aching for him, thinking of him, daydreaming at the real estate office all day long until the clock dragged its hands to six and she could punch out.

  Thank God Kat had diverted her attention by inviting her to an “intimate get-together” at her house. At least that’s what she’d said. Now here they were, standing in Kat’s foyer, her friend dangling the black silk from her hands.

  “It’s just a routine precaution,” Kat insisted. “You know, you’re going to have to work on this trust issue. I’m not George.”

  Damn, but Kat knew just which buttons to push. She would do anything that was the antithesis of her scrungy ex. “Give me the blindfold.”

  “I’ll do it. Turn around.”

  Giving her a gimlet stare, Lyssa said, “You don’t trust me to cover my eyes all the way?”

  “I just want to be sure your hair doesn’t get mussed.”

  With a hmmmph, Lyssa allowed herself to be blindfolded and led onto Kat’s porch, down the steps, and into the passenger seat of a car. The faint scent of Kat’s Obsession and the rich smell of new leather told her that it was Kat’s BMW. She fumbled with the seat belt, heard the driver’s door open, then close.

  “All set?” Kat’s chipper voice.

  “You’re really testing our friendship, lady.”

  With an evil chuckle, Kat turned the ignition, and the car sprang into action.

  Behind the blindfold, Lyssa closed her eyes and concentrated on following the car’s movement. A few blocks on Windermere Drive, then a right, then a left. The car accelerated. The car stopped. Lyssa tensed. Then it moved forward again. Traffic light. They must be on Lancaster Avenue, she thought. Soon Lyssa lost all sense of direction. How long had they driven? Ten minutes? A half hour? Had that long curve been to get onto the Blue Route? Had Kat been making devious turns to confuse her? Which, as Kat well knew, couldn’t be too hard. George had always denigrated her navigation skills whenever they’d driven anywhere together.

  “Okay, we’re here.”

  Adrenaline pumped through Lyssa. What did Kat have planned? She knew darn well she could trust her best friend, but still, everything was so secretive that Lyssa’s equilibrium was disrupted.

  The door on the passenger side opened before Kat got out of the car. A large hand took a firm grip on Lyssa’s shoulder. “Easy, now,” a deep male voice said. “Just swing your legs out. I’ll guide you.”

  “Thank you, Jules.” Kat’s voice, right next to him.

  “You’re coming with me, aren’t you, Kat?” Lyssa spoke with just a hint of panic.

  “Wouldn’t miss it.”

  That didn’t help Lyssa’s unease.

  With Kat on her left and Jules on her right, Lyssa was led down an echoing hallway. No steps. They must have pulled inside a garage. They stopped a moment then she was nudged forward again. Four steps and they stopped. A soft hum, a whir.

  Her stomach lurched.

  An elevator. An office building? Hotel? She hadn’t been in the real estate business long, but she hadn’t heard of a house that had an elevator.

  A whoosh and the elevator doors slid open. They had gone up quite a few floors, twenty or more. Definitely not a house. Deep carpeting underfoot as she walked. The click of a latch—a door opening. Lyssa detected perfume mingled with masculine cologne, heard the clink of ice cubes in a glass, the murmur of voices. A shiver raced up her spine.

  “Steady,” Kat whispered. Then, in a louder voice, “Stand right here. The formalities will only take a few minutes.”

  A deep, authoritative male voice said, “You have been nominated for membership in the Platinum Society. As you already know, it’s an exclusive bastion of Main Line Philadelphians with rigid requirements. You are in the presence of the board of directors, who vote on prospective new members. If you are accepted for membership, you will, of course, be afforded the answers to any questions you have, including identities.”

  The sex club. Of course. They don’t want outsiders to know their secrets. Lyssa relaxed margina
lly, then tensed with the thought, Who nominated me? Kat? Savidge?

  “Could you please tell us what you thought of the masquerade you attended in late August ?” A female voice, not Kat’s. Throaty, with a Katharine Hepburn diction.

  Lyssa felt her cheeks heat. Had this board of directors seen her wanton behavior? She stalled, wondering what they wanted to hear.

  “Please be frank with us,” Kat said. “No one will bite you.”

  “Unless you request it,” another male voice said to a few chuckles.

  “I, uh, I was amazed to see…everything that was happening,” she stuttered.

  “That’s a normal reaction,” the Hepburn clone said. “But can you tell us how you felt when you watched the guests interacting?”

  Now her face had to be lipstick-red, Lyssa thought. She could feel a bead of sweat trickle down between her breasts just from the heat of remembering the Indian, the fireman, the Scotsman…her gladiator. “Turned on,” she managed. Then her voice strengthened. She wasn’t George’s doormat any more. She was a woman who had discovered her own sensuality and was delighted and rocked by it.

  “I never realized that I could…that just watching could turn me on. I-I hate pornographic movies, because it’s all about the man putting part A into slot B, then slot C, then slot D, and so on, and so forth. But this was different. The participants, they weren’t acting for the benefit of a camera or a paycheck. They were enjoying themselves.”

  She took a deep breath, wishing she had changed from her office suit into more casual, less constricting clothes. The jabot at her neck was particularly smothering.

  “I enjoyed watching them. I, uh, I got into the spirit of things.” She resisted the urge to raise her hands to feel just how hot her cheeks were. It would just call attention to the furious blush that was spreading down to her throat.