Dance: Dance of the Seven Veils

by Cris Anson

  He spun her around, enveloped her in a bear hug. “God, I’ve missed you.” His mouth descended to hers, and he kissed her like a dehydrated man in a desert who had found a waterhole, sucking and nibbling, thrusting his tongue in and out, ravaging her mouth.

  When he released her mouth to kiss her throat, she murmured his name. She ran her hands up and down his back, following the contours of his narrow hips to his taut butt, pulling him closer to her.

  After a few minutes of foreplay that made them almost spontaneously combust, he slid his hands to her upper arms and pulled her back just enough to gaze into her eyes, his Harrison Ford smile aimed at her. “Miss me?”

  Lyssa took a deep, stabilizing breath. “About as much as you missed me.”

  “Good thing you closed the door. We wouldn’t want any of your neighbors to have heart attacks.”

  “Would you like some coffee?”

  “Sounds great. I’m sorry I couldn’t make dinner,” he said as they turned to walk down the hall to the kitchen, his arm slung casually across her shoulder, hers around his waist. “I came right from the airport. Had to take a commercial flight, and it had engine trouble. I spent three hours on the ground at Heathrow, wishing I hadn’t been so magnanimous as to allow my partner to use the Lear jet.”

  “You own your own jet?” she asked as she spooned hazelnut Colombian into the Braun.

  “The firm does. I don’t use it often. I’m admitted to practice in Pennsylvania, New York, Illinois and California. I usually fly commercial in the U.S.”

  “What were you doing in London?” Lyssa could have bitten her tongue as soon as the question came out of her mouth. It was none of her business, she chastised herself as she plugged the pot into the electrical outlet. And she would not ask him if he visited the London Platinum Society.

  “We’re working on a big merger. Our client gave me carte blanche to negotiate, and I was able to forge an agreement acceptable to all parties.” His pleased smile erased the tiredness she’d seen in his eyes, but not the dark smudges under them.

  “Congratulations,” she said. “It must give you a great deal of satisfaction to complete a big deal.”

  “Not nearly as much as a certain woman who in my fantasies is wearing nothing but Shalimar and a smile.”

  Lyssa’s breath hitched. He remembered her perfume.

  She twirled a pirouette in front of him. “And here you’re stuck with a barefoot woman who’s wearing jeans and a T-shirt.”

  “Snug jeans and snugger T-shirt. Looks good to me, woman.”

  The burbling of the pot signaled that the coffee was ready. Lyssa busied herself pouring two cups, not wanting him to see how pleased she was at his comment. Because he hadn’t wanted any phone sex during the second call, she’d vowed that he would have to make the next move.

  When she had stirred cream into hers—he took his black—she served them both and sat beside him at the kitchen table. “You must be exhausted.”

  “Not too tired to be with you. Anything happening on the moral turpitude front?”

  “You’ll never guess who Sally Greene is.”

  Savidge set down his coffee cup. “Judging by the twinkle in your eyes, it’s a killer answer.”

  “You got that right. She’s George’s new mother-in-law!”

  He chuckled. “I might have guessed. So did this Smythe fellow call Mrs. Greene?”

  “He didn’t have to.” Lyssa’s mouth compressed into a determined line. “I confronted George in his office. Told him if he bothered me any more, I’d tell one of his investment buddies whose name I saw on the membership roster that he’s a faggot who likes to be whipped by a bald giant.”

  Savidge threw back his head and roared with laughter. She joined in. It felt good to laugh with him, to share things with him. Like an old married couple who were still interested in what the other had experienced.

  When the laughter petered out, she asked, “How did you get involved in the Platinum Society?”

  Savidge raised his eyes to the ceiling, as if trying to decide where to start. “I had known Dad was involved with it in some fashion, but I didn’t get pulled into it until after my divorce. Columba wasn’t a bad woman, we just grew in different directions. We stuck together until our son graduated high school. We were living separate lives by then, so splitting was just the next step.”

  He drained his cup and set it on the table. “I was at loose ends. I was tired of all the arm candy wanting to be the next Mrs. Robert Savidge. I didn’t know what I was looking for, but it certainly wasn’t another marriage. Dad invited me to a party at his place, gave me some hint as to what it was.

  “He’d always been a good father, even though I didn’t see him for days or weeks at a time. But when he was home, he made it a point to teach me to sail, to read the stock quotes, talk about the birds and bees. I remember I was about ten years old when he winked at me, and said, ‘You don’t stop fucking just because you hit forty. Your mom and I still…’ And then he stopped, as if embarrassed to be telling his prepubescent son something he probably wasn’t ready to hear.

  “But I never forgot that.

  “So I went, not quite sure what to expect. Mom had died a few years before that. Coronary embolism. Went in a flash.”

  “Oh, Savidge, I’m sorry.” Instinctively Lyssa reached out to touch his hand.

  He shrugged. “It’s how she would have wanted to go. No pain, no dragging on. She’d watched her own mother die by inches with cancer. Mom stayed around just long enough to tell us once more that she loved us.”

  Quietly Lyssa rose and filled his cup. He nodded absently in acknowledgement.

  “Anyway, when I got to this party, it was a turn-on, of course. It’s like living your wildest fantasy. But I couldn’t just jump in. When all was said and done, to me it was akin to cruising the red-light district for a hooker.”

  He took her hand, entwined their fingers. “I’m not going to say I was a monk. Once I got to know the players, I did participate on occasion. Problem was the women started calling me, wanting to take it to the next level. So I started helping Dad police the affairs. I guess Kat explained. Someone’s always the ‘designated driver’ who doesn’t participate. He or she wanders around watching to see if anyone’s eyes are panicky.”

  A smile played around the edges of his mouth. “When Dad got released from his responsibility, it was heartening to see that he still had the verve to go after one or another of the younger women. Younger for him, that is. He never wanted to look pathetic, chasing after a twenty-year-old like some of those former leading men in Hollywood who should be playing grandfathers. I’ve seen him on occasion with a well-turned-out widow of, oh, I’d guess in her late forties. A fifteen-year difference doesn’t raise so many eyebrows.”

  Comfortable silence descended as they sat next to each other at the table, fingers still entwined. I could get used to this, Lyssa thought.

  She brought Savidge’s hand to her mouth and kissed the palm, then set it against her cheek. “You look tired. I guess you’ve had a long day.”

  “Long week.” He stroked her mouth with his thumb. “It’s good to be back.”

  “London was that bad?”

  The sparkle in his eyes did funny things to her heart. “London was fine. This—” he grabbed her hand and tugged firmly until she had to rise off her chair, “—is better.”

  Somehow she found herself perched on his lap sideways, with his arms loosely clasped around her waist. His gaze, tenderly amused just a moment ago, turned intense. “Lyssa. I want to kiss you.”

  Her mouth quirked upward. “Don’t let me stop you.”

  Bringing one hand up to cup her head, he nudged her until their lips were almost, but not quite, touching. “There’s only one problem.”

  Her gaze lingering on his sexy mouth, she ventured, “You’re too tired?”

  “No way. You give me strength. You make me want to stay awake.”

  “Then…?”

  “I can�
�t stop with just one kiss.”

  As if to prove his point, he closed the gap between them, gently flicking his tongue across her mouth. Reflexively she opened it, softening, melding to him, twisting her shoulders to press her breasts against his chest, squirming on his lap to seat herself better atop his burgeoning cock. She tasted the coffee on his tongue, inhaled faint traces of woodsy aftershave and rumpled traveler.

  More. She wanted more. More kisses, more body contact. Too many clothes, her mind said, while her body enjoyed the pure heaven of his lips as he intensified the kiss, angling his head to delve deeper into her mouth. Her arms went around his neck. She wished she could stand up to straddle him, to spread her legs wide to feel the hard bulge of him rubbing against her slit, but it felt too good just the way they were, his hands on her hips, pressing, rocking them.

  His mouth nibbled hot, biting kisses down her throat and lower, until he latched onto one T-shirt-covered breast. She gave a soft moan, arching her back to offer him better access, and was rewarded when his hands crept under the soft, well-washed cotton.

  “Lord save me,” he groaned when his fingers reached the naked curve of her breast. “There oughta be a law against going braless when a man’s trying to do the right thing.”

  “You’re doing exactly the right thing.” She grabbed the hem of her shirt and lifted it, abrading her already swollen nipple to a harder peak and exposing both breasts to his greedy gaze.

  “So beautiful,” he murmured, capturing first one, then the other nipple in his hot mouth and suckling like a starving infant.

  Lyssa gloried in the sensations streaking through all her nerve endings as he tugged and licked, squeezed and then scraped his teeth lightly over each nipple. She placed her palms at his temples to hold him even closer as she whispered his name over and over.

  “I can’t stand this,” he rasped, standing suddenly and setting her on her feet. Quickly he unsnapped the brass button, pulled down the zipper of her jeans, and knelt before her as he slipped the denim down her legs. “I need to taste you.” He slid his fingers under the elastic of her panties and yanked the crotch aside.

  Lyssa was just sane enough to think, Why wasn’t I wearing my sexy underwear? when Savidge licked the cunt lips he’d just exposed, and all other thought fled. Her knees buckled and he lifted her by the waist to set her on top of the kitchen table.

  He wrenched her jeans off one foot, leaving the garment dangling at her other ankle. He spread her knees and, grabbing the panty crotch again, brought the full impact of his mouth to bear on her slit. She leaned back on her elbows and opened her legs wide, barely hearing the sharp sound of breaking china as a cup crashed to the floor.

  “Oh, God, Savidge, I’ve missed you, missed this.” Lyssa lifted her legs onto his shoulders to allow him fuller access as he sucked her nub, tongued her slit, kneaded her ass cheeks.

  Her climax took her unawares. She’d wanted the delicious feel of his mouth on her cunt to last a long time, but her fevered body demanded otherwise. She clamped her knees together, trapping his head, his mouth, as she bucked against him, gasping, raising her hips rhythmically as violent spasms exploded inside her.

  When her breathing slowed down and her heartbeat neared normal, she slid her legs off his shoulders and sighed. “Welcome home, Savidge.”

  “Home.” He smiled that lopsided smile and planted a quick kiss on the triangle of blonde hair on her pubis, then released the elastic. “Has a nice sound to it.”

  Savidge bent down to gather her other pant-leg, held it out for her to slip her foot into the opening. “Here. Get yourself dressed. Don’t you want to see what I brought you from Harrod’s?”

  Frowning, Lyssa shimmied into her jeans. “Don’t I get a chance?”

  “You mean you want another pop even before you see your present?”

  “No, dammit.” She made a moue. “Didn’t it occur to you that I might want to do unto you as you have done unto me?”

  Tenderly, Savidge placed his palms on her cheeks, then kissed her forehead. “This isn’t about me. I wanted to do this for you, not for me. I can live with a hard-on.”

  “Wait a minute.” Lyssa poked his chest with her index finger. “What’s sauce for the gooseblah, blah, blah. You wanted to make me come. Okay, you did and I liked it. But you’re saying you’re too selfish to let me return the favor? You’d rather go home with blue balls than have a good fuck?”

  “That’s not it at all. I simply—”

  “You know what I think? I think you got too much pussy in that London club. Between that and your jet lag, you can’t perform and you don’t want me to see you in that unflattering light. You want me to keep thinking of you as a hot stud in high demand.”

  “Honey, listen.” Savidge gathered her into his arms. “I just—”

  “Don’t you ‘honey’ me.” Lyssa tried to push herself away, but met with the immovable object of his chest.

  “You look so cute when you’re angry.”

  “That’s patronizing.”

  A sheepish look crept over his face. “You’re right. It was.” Then a smile replaced it. “Hey, we’re having our first lovers’ quarrel.”

  Lyssa couldn’t help it. She started to laugh. “You’re incorrigible.”

  “I’m serious, Lyss. I want to be with you, I want us to do things that normal couples do. It doesn’t always have to be sex. I want to wake up with you, go to sleep with you—and I mean make some ’z’s’, not a euphemism for sex. Although I want that, too. Lots of it. I want to bring you breakfast in bed and hot cocoa at night. I want to take you to the zoo and to the opera. I want to teach you to sail.”

  “Oh, Savidge…” Lyssa’s voice dwindled to nothing. The lump in her throat prevented further speech. It sounded almost as if…

  No, she dared not allow herself to think that they had a future together. He was too good to be true. Someone like Robert Savidge, rich, handsome, with a commanding presence and formidable intellect, what would he want with her?

  His lips lightly brushed hers. “Lyssa, will you—”

  The sound of metal clinking jolted her. “Who—what—”

  Instantly Savidge pushed her protectively behind him. “Stay here. I’ll go see. Sounds like someone’s trying to get in.”

  The front door banged open. “Mom? It’s me, Michelle. I need my laptop.”

  Lyssa’s hand flew to her mouth. Oh God, what if she’d come home ten minutes earlier? She could feel her cheeks burn at the thought of her daughter seeing what they’d done on the kitchen table.

  The cup! Hadn’t she heard, in some dim corner of her mind, the sound of a cup breaking while they were engaging in an act that her daughter had better not have any knowledge of? Quickly she checked the state of her hair by running her fingers through her tresses. Not too bad. She could hear Michelle’s voice getting louder as she strode down the hall toward the kitchen.

  “I appreciate you letting me take your new one, Mom, but it doesn’t dock to the PC that I have in my room the way my old one does, and I need to transfer all my notes from—”

  Michelle stopped dead in her tracks, her mouth making a wide oval as she assimilated the fact that a tall, handsome stranger stood leaning casually against her mother’s kitchen counter, one hand in his pants pocket in a partially successful attempt to hide the telltale bulge at his zipper, his attire rumpled and in dire need of pressing.

  Speechless, she turned to her mother, both accusation and question in her eyes. Lyssa forced herself not to squirm under the microscopic inspection as she took mental tally of herself—T-shirt modestly pulled down to hips, jeans buttoned and zipped, hair tucked behind ears, barefoot—

  “Hey, whose overnight bag is that?”

  Lyssa stiffened as George came charging into the kitchen like an irritated rhino. He zeroed in on Savidge. “You,” he spat out. “What the hell are you—”

  “What are you doing here?” Lyssa countered, needing to nip the head of steam she could see building in George.


  “Now we know why your Mom didn’t answer her phone,” George said in a falsely saccharine tone of voice. “She must have been really busy. Or distracted.”

  “It hasn’t rung in the half hour I’ve been here,” Savidge interjected, obviously trying to defuse the situation.

  “I started trying to call you from Jessie’s cell phone when we got off the Thruway, like five or six times. It rang and rang. You didn’t pick up and the answering machine didn’t kick in. She lives in Princeton and she’s allowed to have her Mustang at school, so she dropped me off at the train station there. I had to wait until it pulled into 30th Street Station to call from a pay phone. When you still didn’t answer, I panicked and called Dad.”

  “Well, I’m sorry you had so much trouble, sweetie, but I didn’t know you were coming home this weekend.”

  She glared at Savidge. “Obviously.”

  “You must be Michelle.” Savidge stepped forward and thrust out his hand. “My name is Robert Savidge. I’m one of the attorneys from the firm that administers your trust fund.”

  Michelle’s demeanor changed at once. “Attorney? Mom, is something wrong?”

  “Not at all,” Savidge said smoothly. “Like you, I couldn’t reach Mrs. Markham by phone. That overnight case, George—” he turned his attention to the older man with a bland look on his face, “—is mine. I spent the past week in London, so was basically out of touch with my office. I had the cab drop me off here, since it’s on my way home.”

  He paused, lifting an eyebrow as he skewered George with a laser stare. “I just wanted to make sure that the transfer of funds from the trust to the college had occurred, since there was some minor glitch.”

  George made a blustering sound, but it was obvious he didn’t want to get into a pissing contest with this particular attorney about Michelle’s trust fund. He turned as if to go stalking down the hall, but stopped as his gaze settled on the broken shards of china scattered on the floor. “What the hell happened here?”

  “A noise startled Mrs. Markham and the cup fell out of her hand. It sounded like metal scraping on metal. She thought someone was trying to break in, but of course it turned out to be a house key. Her car must be in the garage, because I didn’t see it when the cab dropped me off. So it would be natural for a burglar to assume no one was home.”