his in their mask, and her breath quickened as he matched her steps.
Of course he knew how to dance samba, she thought. What local guy knew how to dance? What did he do with himself in his spare time? Study Latin? Fold paper cranes?
These thoughts were driven from her mind as he spun her out, reeled her in, dipped her, and planted a possessive kiss in the center of her cleavage as she bent backward. Marcella felt every fiber in her body light up at his touch.
She moved with the grace of a natural athlete, stomping, shimmying, swirling—belly dancing and martial arts in her past informing movement now. Her long hair flew like a matador’s cape around her shining body. His tall shadow fell across her, pierced by arrows of light from the mirror ball. She glimpsed his corded arms, bronzed brown skin. The unbuttoned silky shirt and broken-in Levi’s were the same he’d worn in the photo.
Not an exhibitionist or a pretty boy, he was a real man with a solid body—the kind that felt as good to touch as to see. His mask hid everything but the glitter of his eyes as they matched rhythms. She moved in, ran her fingers down his chest, brushing his belt buckle. She heard his quick intake of breath, felt his hands move up her back and down, pulling her in to move against him, leaving no doubt as to his intention.
She moved away and he pursued; she stalked and he retreated.
No one else existed in the crowded darkness. Words were unnecessary—and dangerous.
Finally she took his hand—a big hand, square, calloused between the thumb and forefinger—and led him off the floor, through the lounge where more sedate clubbers chose each other, and down a hall to one of the “Unoccupied” rooms.
The cubicle was simply furnished—a mirrored ceiling and a king-sized bed, a side table stocked with every imaginable unguent and sex enhancer, a narrow cabinet stocked with fresh sheets. All the necessities were there—and the partners were anonymous—except when they weren’t.
Marcella let him peel her clothing off, tasting and teasing her, his fingers tracing the outlines of her neck, her arms, her breasts. She unbuttoned the last of his shirt, enjoying the splendor of his muscular body—what she’d only imagined when he wore his wet suit. She tugged him by the belt until she sat on the edge of the bed and pulled him between her legs, stroking his muscular buttocks. She made short work of the belt, the buttons, and finally the jeans, and in a moment she had him in her mouth. His hands fisted in her hair as he watched, a growl rumbling in his chest.
When he pushed her away and went to dive in, she shook her head. “Now you.”
He moved in on her with the confidence she’d sensed, working her with his tongue and fingers until she felt the first wave roar up from her toes, heaving through her body, heels drumming on his back.
That’s when he surprised her, flipping her around and draping her boneless body over the end of the bed, her ass in the air and boots still on. He entered her from behind, and she slid back and forth across the white sheets, the surface abrading sensitive nipples, relentlessly exquisite. He reached down in front of himself and found the kernel of her pleasure. She reared back with a cry as he bore down on her again and again.
Their passionate explosion was wordless but far from silent.
Marcella collapsed facedown, his bulk draped over her as they cooled.
“Wow,” she muttered.
“Amen,” he said. Both their masks were still on; that was the rule. She turned her head and glimpsed the hammerhead tattoo on his inner biceps. She rolled away and stood up, pulling wipes out of the canister by the bed, tossing him some as she rubbed herself down while he discarded the condom he’d somehow put on without a hitch.
A discreet plaque hung on the wall declared, “Leave it the way you want to find it.”
She and Kamuela stripped the bed, tossed the sheets into the hamper in the corner, and remade it with
Of course he knew how to dance samba, she thought. What local guy knew how to dance? What did he do with himself in his spare time? Study Latin? Fold paper cranes?
These thoughts were driven from her mind as he spun her out, reeled her in, dipped her, and planted a possessive kiss in the center of her cleavage as she bent backward. Marcella felt every fiber in her body light up at his touch.
She moved with the grace of a natural athlete, stomping, shimmying, swirling—belly dancing and martial arts in her past informing movement now. Her long hair flew like a matador’s cape around her shining body. His tall shadow fell across her, pierced by arrows of light from the mirror ball. She glimpsed his corded arms, bronzed brown skin. The unbuttoned silky shirt and broken-in Levi’s were the same he’d worn in the photo.
Not an exhibitionist or a pretty boy, he was a real man with a solid body—the kind that felt as good to touch as to see. His mask hid everything but the glitter of his eyes as they matched rhythms. She moved in, ran her fingers down his chest, brushing his belt buckle. She heard his quick intake of breath, felt his hands move up her back and down, pulling her in to move against him, leaving no doubt as to his intention.
She moved away and he pursued; she stalked and he retreated.
No one else existed in the crowded darkness. Words were unnecessary—and dangerous.
Finally she took his hand—a big hand, square, calloused between the thumb and forefinger—and led him off the floor, through the lounge where more sedate clubbers chose each other, and down a hall to one of the “Unoccupied” rooms.
The cubicle was simply furnished—a mirrored ceiling and a king-sized bed, a side table stocked with every imaginable unguent and sex enhancer, a narrow cabinet stocked with fresh sheets. All the necessities were there—and the partners were anonymous—except when they weren’t.
Marcella let him peel her clothing off, tasting and teasing her, his fingers tracing the outlines of her neck, her arms, her breasts. She unbuttoned the last of his shirt, enjoying the splendor of his muscular body—what she’d only imagined when he wore his wet suit. She tugged him by the belt until she sat on the edge of the bed and pulled him between her legs, stroking his muscular buttocks. She made short work of the belt, the buttons, and finally the jeans, and in a moment she had him in her mouth. His hands fisted in her hair as he watched, a growl rumbling in his chest.
When he pushed her away and went to dive in, she shook her head. “Now you.”
He moved in on her with the confidence she’d sensed, working her with his tongue and fingers until she felt the first wave roar up from her toes, heaving through her body, heels drumming on his back.
That’s when he surprised her, flipping her around and draping her boneless body over the end of the bed, her ass in the air and boots still on. He entered her from behind, and she slid back and forth across the white sheets, the surface abrading sensitive nipples, relentlessly exquisite. He reached down in front of himself and found the kernel of her pleasure. She reared back with a cry as he bore down on her again and again.
Their passionate explosion was wordless but far from silent.
Marcella collapsed facedown, his bulk draped over her as they cooled.
“Wow,” she muttered.
“Amen,” he said. Both their masks were still on; that was the rule. She turned her head and glimpsed the hammerhead tattoo on his inner biceps. She rolled away and stood up, pulling wipes out of the canister by the bed, tossing him some as she rubbed herself down while he discarded the condom he’d somehow put on without a hitch.
A discreet plaque hung on the wall declared, “Leave it the way you want to find it.”
She and Kamuela stripped the bed, tossed the sheets into the hamper in the corner, and remade it with
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