This story contains sexually explicit scenes.
Marguerite stepped onto the dance floor, the look of hunger in her eyes. Perspiration beaded on her forehead and trickled between her breasts. The heat was unbearable, but perfect for a Rumba. The dance of love.
The music began—a slow, sensual rhythm. Benito stood erect, the sleekness of his frame belying his strength. Marguerite wasn’t fooled. She’d known his power, felt its raw explosion in a moment of intimacy when carnal flesh had pushed them beyond what they were prepared for. Marguerite was too trusting, Benito too debauched.
His foot pushed forward, his hip swaying parallel over it. She retreated. Thrust and back. Thrust and back. Spin.
He held tightly, shadowing her steps through the Latin walk, her back to his front, his breath on her neck. Her arm rose high, up towards his hair. Her body arched against his. He defined her curves with a sweep of his hand and then held onto her hip, reawakening the bruise. But she smiled through the Alemana turn.
They slid across the floor like liquid sex. Undulant. Together. An imaginary fuck and a feigned look of pleasure.
The coming sidebreak forced them apart, but the magnet of music drew them together again. Face to face. Hands held high. Bodies touching. Pudenda teasing. A charade of love.
The crowd roared. The judges voted.
“I hate you,” she whispered, her derriere to his groin, as they stood and waited.
“Passion is passion, Marguerite,” his words cool, his grip lax, “as long as you dance.”
They had won again.
Copyright © 2004 by Desdmona.