Just One Night, Part 2: Exposed by Kyra Davis Read Free Book Online

Monsieur Dade could make it happen.
    A small band of musicians is waiting for us on the stage as we walk into the room bathed in the blue light streaming through the stained glass. A pianist sits with his fingers poised over a baby grand that would be completely unremarkable if the lid of the piano wasn’t open to reveal painted lovers rising into a blue-gray landscape. Around them are villagers, a quarter of the size of the lovers. They don’t attempt to match the couple’s grandeur but they seem to rejoice in the warmth that emanates from them.
    Robert leads me past rows of empty seats until we are in the front of the room, just a few feet from the stage. He steps away from me only to extend his hand in my direction, his palm up, offering a universal invitation that he reiterates with words when he asks, “Will you dance?”
    As I take his hand the band starts to play and we begin to move. The bass is so low, its vibrations tremble against my skin as I follow Robert’s lead in something that resembles a waltz but is different enough to make it uniquely ours. I throw back my head and laugh as I’m twirled around the room, wrapped up in blue light and Monsieur Dade’s arms.
    But then he stops, right there in the middle of the floor and with a slow smile, he tells me I’m beautiful. Lifting myself onto my tiptoes, I kiss his lips, lightly at first but then his hand moves to the back of my head, pulling me in closer.
    The music soars with my pulse and we begin to dance again. But this time it’s different. Our shirts drift to the floor as the sonata ends, bringing us to a new, more rhythmic melody. Then comes his belt, my skirt, everything, until we are dancing naked through the hall. A red dove on painted blue glass seems to swoop down on us as his tongue parts my lips. The music beats through me as we sway. I feel him get hard against me. The musicians don’t even seem to notice us; that’s not their place in this dream. They are only required to provide Robert and me with a soundtrack for our passion. And as he lowers me to the floor, as I roll on top of him, straddle his hips and feel him push inside of me, I know that, in the ways that count, it is just the two of us. I ride him slowly, moving with the tempo.
    The musicians have the stage. We have each other.
    Robert’s hands slide to my waist, guiding me, moving me so I can feel the full length of him inside of me. Painted memories of Chagall’s youth seem to fall from the sky as Robert sits up. He’s still inside me as I sit facing him in his lap. For a moment we don’t move; we just take a moment to feel what it is to be connected, with our bodies, with our eyes, by an emotion that is so much bigger than either one of us.
    And then the dance starts again. I gasp as his hips buck against mine, splitting me open until it feels like it’s not just him but the music itself that’s inside of me, moving through me, resonating against every nerve ending to make me frantic with desire.
    With one decisive movement he flips me over and I cling to him as he begins to pull out only to enter me again with a forceful thrust and a gentle kiss. “I love you,” he says, and I respond in kind.
    He positions one of my legs above his shoulder. “Follow my lead,” he whispers.
    And with that he thrusts again and my world is filled with ecstasy. The music, the art, the man who makes my heart pound . . . it brings me to the brink of nirvana and as Chagall’s lovers swirl in their blue light I come with a cry that echoes through the room.
    His sweat is mingled with mine, my nose is filled with the sent of our sex . . .
    . . . and we’re not done.
    He turns me on my stomach and again he enters me. On the ground I can see fragmented reflections of blue, a cool contrast from the red heat inside me.
    As he pushes farther and farther inside, his hand strokes the length of my back with a subtle pressure that brings me to crescendo. And as I come again, I hear him cry