Between You and Me

by Lynn Turner

  “That’s very thoughtful of you,” she said. “I just need your help with something.” She slowly removed her robe but remained where she stood.

  He whistled low at the sight of her. She was sheathed all in black, her soft curves hugged by the smooth fabric. The neckline of the sleeveless dress plunged to show the collarbone he adored, and just enough of the valley between her small breasts to make his tongue snake out to lick his lips. Her feet were nearly nude, a single black strap across her toes and another around her ankles all that held the sexy stilettos in place. “Help with—”

  There didn’t seem to be anything amiss with her outfit. Then she turned around.

  He inhaled sharply. Her dress was open, the zipper dangerously low on her back revealing a glorious expanse of golden brown skin and a flash of red that caught his eye.

  She tossed him coquettish look over her shoulder and moved her hair out of the way. “Could you zip me?”

  He tossed his jacket on the bed, the rumple of fabric sounding loud in the otherwise silent room, and stepped behind her. He made no move to zip her dress. He wanted her to feel the heat from his body, the burn of anticipation she kindled within him with her game. He trailed his knuckles down her back and she moaned, arching against his hand. Down his knuckles went…down, down, slowly down…until they brushed the dip above the curve of her ass and her body jerked reflexively.

  Finn swore, feeling a rush of blood to his groin at her responsiveness. He was intrigued by the stunning contrast of the sheer red band of her bra across her back. He pulled one of her dress straps off her shoulder and halfway down her arm. A soft breast was visible through the sheer fabric of her bra, only her nipple and the topmost portion covered by floral appliqués.

  “Jesus.”

  She flashed a smug little grin at his reaction, and he grabbed her by her arms, yanking her to him. She gasped, and he knew she could feel his arousal against her backside. He wrapped an arm around her, planting one hand firmly to her tummy to press her against him, kneading a breast with the other.

  “Finn!”

  He didn’t stop. He increased the pressure of his massaging hand and sneered in her ear. “Little cruel, don’t you think, dangling steak in front of a starving man?”

  He quickly zipped her up and crossed the room to lift his dinner jacket from the bed. “Shall we?” he said gruffly, his lips a hard line.

  He wasn’t angry. He was channeling every bit of energy he had into controlling his lust. The only thing stopping him from taking her into his arms again was his word. He wouldn’t disrupt her plans for the evening. All that would be damned to hell if they didn’t leave right now.

  Emanuela grabbed her evening bag and preceded him from the room without a word.

  Chapter Thirteen

  They’d walked into a time capsule. The House of Blues on Decatur Street had been transformed into an impressive reproduction of the sensual grandeur of the Moulin Rouge. The usually exposed rafters of the little blues joint were covered by yards and yards of luxurious red tapestry striped with gold. Miniature lanterns dotted the perimeter of the cloth-lined ceiling and emanated soft golden light from their tiny glass windows. The walls of the place were cloaked in heavy scarlet curtains, golden tassels drawing them apart wherever there was an entryway or a staircase.

  Finn and Emanuela presented their tickets to the man at the door, witnessing many hopeful walk-ins turned away. “Full house,” the man said, or “Dinner jacket required.” The tuxedo-clad hosts and servers were dressed more elegantly than some of the paying guests who came in business casual, but it did not seem out of the ordinary somehow, as though it was simply part of the experience.

  Their tickets indicated special seating, so they were led past rows of tables draped in white tablecloth and red velvet seats, to their rounded table for two on the mezzanine balcony nearest the stage. Small, red-shaded table lamps sat atop every table. The effect was enchanting, giving the intimate room the feel of a magical red forest lit up with hundreds of glowing fireflies.

  Finn would have pulled out Emanuela’s chair, but a gentleman in a tux beat him to it. Her eyes flashed at a motion behind him. A scantily clad hostess, decked out in all of her white and gold, beaded and feathered showgirl glory, held his chair out for him and smiled. They thanked their attentive hosts and took their seats.

  Finn gave Emanuela an amused glance, admiring the way the soft light of the table lamp highlighted her cheekbones. “Why do you always sit so far away?” Before she could deny it, he reached for her seat and pulled it next to him. “Better.”

  She blushed at the look of satisfaction on his face. “Behave.”

  A few more guests trickled in as the Galop from Jacques Offenbach’s “Orpheus in the Underworld,” famously known as the Can-can Dance song, began to play softly in the background. Champagne and house wine, red and white, flowed freely at every table. No fancy offerings were available, probably because management didn’t want drunken guests jeering at the girls during the show.

  “Remind me to never underestimate you,” Finn said, looking around with wonder at people gussied up to varying degrees.

  “This show was too intriguing to pass up.” She offered him a look at her program.

  Burlesque: A Tribute for the Ages, it said. The two-hour long show would pay homage to six of the world’s most famous burlesque stars, with standup acts intermittently during the three course meals. The Galop exploded from the speakers, the lights went up, and the curtains of the stage opened. A dozen showgirls with elaborate headdresses, beaded bras and feathered derrieres danced onto the stage from either side. Between them, eleven tuxedoed gentlemen joined in. The ruffled skirts of yesteryear were forsaken. This was no classical revue, so modest costuming was unwelcome. Long legs circled and kicked high into the air, exposing bits of thigh between fishnet stockings and frilled bloomers. The men were high jumping and kicking their legs wide. The air in the space was electric and many guests clapped in double time to the exuberant sound of horns and strings. At the end of the opening number, the dancers executed their skillful dispersion, disappearing backstage. A dramatic drum roll sounded and another curtain parted.

  “And now,” an announcer said with sensational flair, “your hostess for the evening, Rrrro-si-taaa!”

  A very tall, sexy figure floated onto the stage and the clapping grew louder. Her revealing costume was made entirely of bronze, her headpiece and arm cuffs lending her an imperial bearing. A projector screen lowered behind her during her deliberate stroll to the edge of the stage, her arms outstretched. Black and white footage of the late Rosita Royce played on the screen, and at the exact moment that doves were released in the footage, real doves flew over the audience and alighted on the hostess’s outstretched arms. The audience roared. Hostess Rosita nodded to one dove, sending it off again and blew a kiss to the other before it too departed.

  “Welcome,” her deep voice crooned.

  The realization that the hostess was in drag drew gasps and another uproarious applause. Rosita bowed several times before the audience quieted enough for her to continue her opening remarks.

  The food mimicked the time, and they were served American takes on popular French dishes from the fifties. The first course, Coquilles Saint Jacques, served in scalloped oyster shells, was presented during Rosita’s hilarious opening speech and Finn felt like teasing Emanuela. He waited for her to raise her fork to her lips and nudged her arm, causing a bit of the warm, buttery sauce to drip to her open neckline.

  She glared at him and reached for her napkin, but he smacked her hand. “Let me.”

  He dipped his head to lick the delicious sauce from her collarbone. It was over in a flash, but her face heated through and she glanced around to see if anyone noticed what he’d just done.

  “Behave!” she hissed, grateful for the dim lighting.

  “You have some nerve. I know what you’re wearing under this…” He trailed his fingers along her side and grinned at her shivering re
sponse. “I think I’ll have some fun too.”

  Her eyes were apprehensive, beseeching him not to do anything embarrassing, so he let her finish her first course unmolested. They watched a lively tribute to Jennie Lee, known as “The Bazoom Girl.” Emanuela remarked at how the buxom blonde was able to bounce and swing the way she did without sending her tassels flying and flashing her nipples to everyone in attendance.

  “Jealous little cat,” Finn said in her ear. “I think you need some more attention.”

  “No…”

  She didn’t sound convincing at all, and Finn was already dragging his fingers along her thigh, pulling her dress back by the hem, his fingernails raking her smooth skin. She gasped and reached down to still his hand.

  “No one can see. These tablecloths are very convenient.” He turned his hand to capture her fingers in his and pushed it along her thigh until they reached the mesh of her panties.

  “Finn!”

  “Just act natural.” His grip on her fingers was firm as he moved them over the flimsy fabric. He licked his lips, watching her squirm in her seat, a fractured breath leaving her parted lips. Encouraged, he increased the pressure, keeping the movement of their fingers maddeningly slow until faint wetness seeped through to his fingers.

  The servers were making the rounds to clear the tables for the main course, so he slowly removed their hands, pulling her dress to cover her thighs again. He lifted her fingers to his nostrils and inhaled deeply. He took two of her fingers into his mouth and withdrew them slowly, licking her fingertips before letting her hand fall to her lap.

  Her breath hitched and he grinned. “Sweet.”

  ****

  Their server arrived to top off their glasses. The wine seemed to be on tap, and Emanuela was grateful for it. She was going to need a bit of a buzz, because they weren’t even halfway through dinner and she couldn’t do anything yet to alleviate the persistent pulsing between her thighs. A quick glance at Finn’s expression told her he’d very much enjoyed teasing her, so she focused her gaze on the stage in an effort to ignore him.

  The main course, ossobuco alla Milanese, was served, and her horrible attempt at aloofness was cut mercifully short. The tender braised veal melted in their mouths, and the risotto was flavorful from having absorbed the white wine and broth.

  The stage curtains that were closed during the comedy routine between acts opened again to reveal a set that looked like an Arabian desert. The provocative strains of Maurice Jarre’s famous “Night and Stars” from Lawrence of Arabia filtered into the space. The guests felt an inexplicable tremor through their spines, and then a very leggy lady slinked onto the stage.

  They were mesmerized by the burlesque beauty’s rendition of Lili St. Cyr’s “Salome’s Bath.” Her shimmering bronze skin peeked from her belly-dancing costume in strategic places, her movements like a charmed cobra rising from its vessel. The last thirty seconds of the routine, like the ones before, included vintage footage of Lili herself on the screen behind the performer. It ended with the dancer in sequined panties and golden tassels, reclining in the prop bathtub. She was obviously the crowd’s favorite. The room erupted with applause again, and the curtains closed to prepare for the next performance.

  “That was hot,” Finn said, looking Emanuela up and down.

  She giggled. “It was. I couldn’t take my eyes off her.”

  “I don’t know where they sell them around here, but I’ve got to get you some tassels.”

  “I’m sure we can find out,” she said, “so you can wear them for me.” Her head fell back with the force of her laughter at his pained expression.

  His retaliation was swift. Taking advantage of her vulnerable state, he bent his head to lick her exposed throat. She snapped upright and he sat back, self-satisfied and leering at her.

  “Knock it off,” she said, shifting in her seat.

  “You started it.” He shrugged and leaned in, lowering his voice to murmur in her ear. “And then you brought me here. I’m very impressionable, you know.”

  His breath caressed her ear and she shivered again. “That’s nothing compared to the way you’ve been harassing me!”

  “You can’t just flash me like that and think it won’t distract me the entire evening. Besides, I like seeing you squirm like this. You’re always so composed.”

  “I am not squirming.”

  He reached for his glass, his arm grazing the side of her breast. She gasped and he leered at her again, casually sipping his wine. She tried to scoot away from him to allow herself some space and a chance to calm her heart rate, but he brought one big hand down to clamp her thigh and that was the end of that.

  Baba au rhum was served, and Rosita took the stage to introduce the final act of the evening. The scent of rum wafted from the pretty little yeast cakes, and the swirling tufts of sweet cream in the center tasted divine.

  “If the wine hasn’t done it for me, this definitely will.” Emanuela savored another spoonful.

  Finn groaned softly at her treatment of the spoon. Her eyes shot to his. My, how the tables have turned, she thought, going for another bite. She milked it for everything it was worth, letting the small silver utensil glide between her full lips and come out clean. She licked her bottom lip, her teeth biting the soft flesh for added effect.

  His eyes narrowed. “You’ll pay for that.”

  She squirmed again.

  “All of our lovely performers have done an extraordinary job tonight, wouldn’t you agree?” Rosita asked, provoking the audience into enthusiastic applause. “I think the late and great divas would be proud of their tributes tonight, but probably none as much as the one you’re about to see. It’s said that Ernest Hemingway called her ‘the most sensational woman anyone ever saw.’ Ladies and gentlemen, I give you our homage to Miss Josephine Baker.”

  This time, the projector screen hanging in the background came to life early. Josephine Baker’s pretty round face smiled above the stage, her slender body ornamented with a beaded bra and the famous banana skirt. The dancer on the stage below wore a similar costume and assumed Josephine’s exact pose. The audience held their breaths a beat, and then another; and then the music started up. Isham Jones’ lively “Original Charleston” filled the room and both Josephine and her dancing tribute sparked to life.

  What followed were three and a half minutes of the glorious free spirited dancing characteristic of one of the greatest performers of all time. The audience’s attention was rapt, divided between the projector and the stage, where both dancers moved their bodies in perfect sync to frenetic Charlestons, leggy Knee Rocks, and captivating variations of the Camel Walk. The act, and the show, ended with fifteen seconds of wild hip movement, then the screen dimmed and the dancer on stage strutted off behind the curtain.

  After another rupture of applause, the room emptied quickly. Guests were whisked away to the street to compete for taxis or stroll the French Quarter in search of bars to finish off the night. The hotel was an easy ten-minute walk for Finn and Emanuela. He draped his dinner jacket over her shoulders and they wrapped their arms around each other. Anticipation of what was in store for them the rest of the evening grew stronger the closer they got to their gated hotel. The charged air between them was back, fading their light conversation to electric silence.

  ****

  He was fixated on her, walking down the softly lit hallway and up the stairs, as though he could see her naked flesh right through his dinner jacket and underneath her clothes. She stumbled subtly at the landing and he groaned behind her. He knew what made her steps unsteady, and the knowledge that she was primed for him brought his desire swift and strong. She turned to look at him and he grabbed her at the same time. He took hold of the lapels of the jacket and hauled her to him, backing them against the wall.

  “Your legs drive me crazy,” he murmured against her lips.

  She sighed, moving a slender thigh between his legs to rub against him. He cursed and she took advantage of their parted li
ps to slant open-mouthed kisses along his jaw to his neck. His hands spanned her waist, migrating to her ass to give it a firm squeeze and press her against him.

  “That feels so good.” She pushed back with her hips to intensify the pressure and purred with delight.

  Somewhere a door closed and they remembered where they were.

  “Easy,” he said softly, steadying her on her feet and turning her around by her waist.

  He followed close behind her up the staircase to hide his excitement and allow the other guests to pass on the other side. He pressed her against their door while she fumbled for the key. She was shaking, holding onto the door for support, so he wrapped an arm around her waist and took the key from her to open the door. Once inside, he tossed the jacket somewhere on the floor and turned her at her waist to face him.

  He waited for her to open her eyes. “Show me.”

  She brought trembling hands to his chest and pushed, prodding him to the high-backed upholstered chair near the fireplace. The back of his legs hit the chair and he sat at its edge. Her deep breaths made her breasts heave softly, level with his face, a fact that sent a delicious heat wave through his body.

  A warm blush painted her beautiful skin and his mouth watered. He wanted to follow everywhere the pretty pink hue went with his lips, his tongue, his hands…

  She took his hands in hers and brought them to her thighs. She held his questioning gaze with her steady one and drew his hands up. He got the message and glided his hands up her thighs, pushing the hem of her dress up, up, over her hips to her waist. His touch was firm, moving with deliberate slowness over her thighs, so close to her damp softness that he almost felt dizzy. Her sighs made him want to heighten the sensations she was experiencing, so he gripped her ass in his hands, applying pressure with his fingers.

  “Unh,” she moaned, reaching up to support herself on his broad shoulders.

  He’d seized bare skin. The lack of material beneath his fingers filled his mind with images of her bare bottom, but he didn’t turn her around. Not yet. His eyes lowered to the flimsy scrap of red mesh and floral appliqués covering the most sacred part of her, and he pulled her to him.