by Robin Wolfe
Lise is a curve that begins at her fingers. There are no flat planes on her body; she is all sinuous movement, tendons and muscles and skin combining to create unbroken waves from her outstretched hands to the lifting tips of her toes. In every shift of her hips there is the raw hunger of her thoughts. This is intent. This is seduction.
Chris watches her, the arch of her skeleton beneath her flesh, the sway of her hip-length hair as she dances. Her eyes are closed except when she opens them briefly to capture his gaze, to make sure he is still watching. Of course he is still watching; he can do nothing else.
She goes into a turn, her arms low and her eyes open now because she has to spot. She knows better than to keep her eyes closed; getting dizzy and stumbling really wouldn't help the image she's trying to project. "I am your dream. You want me...Please want me." This is all she has to offer. It is the only way she can think of that might work.
The girl is pretty, he can't deny that. And she'd seemed fun, all enthusiasm and bubbling excitement as soon as she'd spotted him walking through the terminal. He got recognized by fans a lot these days, after appearing on a reality television show. "I loved watching you on the show," she'd said, her hands on his arm. "I'm a dancer too. Well, not your kind of dancing. I'm a bellydancer. But as a dancer I appreciate other dancers, you know? And you just -- I loved watching you because of your skill. The way you move enthralls me."
Chris had never had someone tell him they enthrall him and he was flattered by the pretty girl holding on to him in the middle of the busy Los Angeles airport, her blue eyes so focused on his, a smile warming her full lips. She'd glanced around -- the rest of his dance crew was in the airport too since they were on their way to a competition, but he'd wandered off to find a snack by himself -- and when she hadn't seen anyone with him, she'd leaned in close and put her lips against his ear. The feel of her breath warm on his neck had made him shiver with sudden longing. "You should come with me," she'd murmured. "We could find a quiet spot somewhere. Hell, even a bathroom stall. You're going to be stuck on a plane for probably hours -- think how much easier it would be to sleep on the plane if you...you know...first." She'd laughed softly. "Don't make me spell it out more than that. It'd embarrass me to say it."
He had frozen at her words. Oh, his body hadn't frozen; his body had responded plenty to the thought of her pressed up against the side of a bathroom stall, her skirt pushed up and her legs wrapped around his waist. But his brain had gone quiet, all his words crushed under the weight of his shyness. He wanted to say, "Let's do that. You lead the way. I'll push you up against the wall and fuck you." But he couldn't say it; he had never been able to say things like that. Everyone was always shocked to discover that he was shy, that he was relatively quiet in the presence of people he didn't know. He loved being a badass on stage but that was just his character, the persona he put on before going out to battle; that wasn't the way he was all the time.
She'd paused and waited for his answer, then murmured, "Chris?"
He'd struggled for words and finally said, "Yeah...I don't know. I don't really do things like that."
Lise had paused again, still standing so close that he could feel the heat of her skin. Finally she'd whispered, "Do you think I'm pretty?"
He'd said, "Of course you're pretty. You're beautiful."
She'd sighed a happy little sound and said, "Do you have a girlfriend?"
Chris had shaken his head. "I don't have time for a girlfriend."
She'd shifted a little closer until he could feel the light touch of her clothes against his. "Then I'll make you a deal. Let me dance for you. If you let me dance one song for you and it doesn't make you want to...then just give me a kiss and we'll call it even. And if it does make you want to, then you will. I'll never tell anyone, I swear."
His throat felt thick and he had to swallow several times before he could answer. He'd fully intended to say, "I'm sorry, I can't. I've got to get back to my friends. They'll be wondering where I am." But when he spoke he heard himself say, "All right. One dance. But no promises, okay?"
"Okay," she'd said, and he could hear the smile in her voice. "No promises."
They'd walked fast, their glances probing for a secluded corner like conspirators sizing up the joint. Her cheeks had felt flushed, her blood humming in her ears. Lise didn't usually do things like this either; not to say she'd never done anything this wild, but it was rare, and never, ever with someone like him. Oh, how many hours had she spent before falling asleep, dreaming of exactly the man at her side? She couldn't believe Chris was beside her. She couldn't believe she was going to dance for him. She felt like bursting into hysterical laughter simply for relief from her mingled terror and excitement.
"There," she'd said, and the sound of her own voice startled her. Lise hadn't even been conscious of what she was seeing but now that she'd said it she saw that there was the perfect spot: a little partitioned-off area in a corner of a quiet lounge, probably where they took passengers aside to have their baggage searched. "We'll go in there and I'll dance for you."
"How are you going to dance?" He'd said, sounding startled as if this had just occurred to him. "You don't have any music."
She'd shrugged and said, "I don't need music. Haven't you ever danced without music?"
"Sure," he said. "But that's more just showing off. Bellydancing seems different."
"I'll think of the music in my head," she'd replied. "And if I'm so uncoordinated that you can't feel the rhythm just by watching me, then I'd fail even if I did have music." She led him into the little room formed by the partitions and given him a sudden shy smile. "I can't believe I'm going to dance for you. This is kind of freaking me out."
"You don't have to," he said.
"It's all right," she'd said, her eyes on the floor and a blush warming her cheeks. "I want to."
She'd waited for the space of a breath and then her arms had extended, graceful and waving, and her eyes had closed as the rest of her body followed. Chris found himself automatically counting in his head, the awareness of beats so second-nature to any dancer, and she was right; the rhythm was in every line of her body, the drops and lifts and turns. She was mesmerizing and while she danced he could think of nothing else but her.
And now this is it, the end of her dance; Lise has put everything she has into this. She has translated her desire into kinetic energy, has fed herself with the glimpses of his eyes intent on hers, and now that it is done she feels shaky with relief and want and fear and unexpected power. The power of dancing, of being the enchantress, is singing in her body and she sees in his eyes that he shares it, he senses it. He is with her and she forces down the terror in her belly and steps close. She brushes his ear with her lips and takes a slow breath before saying, "Will you...will you follow me?"
He doesn't answer with words, but the tentative touch of his fingers on her waist tells her his answer a moment before she feels him nod. "All right then," she says with supreme confidence that she doesn't really feel; she is, in fact, suddenly woozy with shock. This can't be happening. "Chris? And me? In a bathroom? No. Fucking. Way."
Lise entwines her fingers with his as if this will prevent him from changing his mind. She peeks out of the makeshift room before leading him away from the partitioned area. It was adequate for a dressed performance but there is no way it is secluded enough for anything more than that. She wishes they had a hotel room or even a car or a grassy field or somewhere, anywhere, more romantic than a bathroom stall, but she is limited by what is available in an airport. By now she has sensed his skittishness and knows if she suggests leaving the airport for a quick tryst he'd almost certainly lose his resolve.
The terminal stretches out ahead of them, dim-lit this early in the morning and with the sun not yet up. It is quiet in this lounge. No planes are scheduled to leave soon from these gates so there are only a few scattered passengers draped in semi-conscious stupors over hard plastic seats. Nobody seems to take any notice as she drops Chris's hand and strolls blithely into the men's bathroom. A quick glance tells her it is empty, the four stall doors all halfway open. She breathes a silent sigh of relief.
Chris is fighting the urge to shake but when she smiles at him he smiles back and after giving the bathroom his own quick glance he follows her into the handicapped bathroom stall. She closes the door behind him and slides the lock. He says, "So, uh," as she puts her arms around him, but he is prevented from further talking as she cuts his words off with a kiss. His body twitches with a startle but then he gives in to her hunger, his lips opening to hers and his arms sliding around her waist to hold her in a tight embrace. Lise is obviously fine with taking the lead, and he has to admit that he finds that somewhat of a relief.
His fingers delve into her hair and she responds by pressing her body tighter against his, her hand cupping the back of his head as they kiss. A soft whimper escapes her as she leans into him and he thinks "what the hell am I doing" even as he responds, sliding his hand down to caress her ass through the soft jersey fabric of her mid-thigh skirt. She is plush under his hands and he pulls her tight against him and gives in, pushing away the "I should run" and "what am I doing here" and "this is a terrible idea" and thinking only "she wants me" and "she is hot" and "she feels so fucking good."
She senses his acceptance in the way his body relaxes against hers, the muscles loosening and his movements becoming smooth as he caresses her back, his hands rising and falling in long slow strokes. Lise leans her head away and his lips find her throat and she sighs. When she whispers his name he murmurs, "I don't know yours."
"It's Lise." She doesn't offer a last name; what would be the point? They're not going to date or see each other again. Then she thinks "but of course I know his last name so maybe it's rude to not tell him mine" so she adds, "Lise Desveaux." He nods against her throat and she puts her fingers under his chin to lift his face to hers. The hair of his goatee prickles her fingers but his lips are soft and when they part she says, "Touch me," and takes his hands and slides them under the front of her shirt, then reaches behind herself to unclasp her bra. His eyes widen slightly but he has no problem finding the smooth swells of her breasts, cupping their weight in his hands. When he glides his dance-callused palms over her nipples Lise loses the remaining shred of her self-control and she pulls her shirt off, then reaches for his. After a slight hesitation he allows her to push his hoodie off his arms and slide his blue t-shirt over his head.
Chris doesn't miss the appreciative glance she gives his bare muscled torso but she doesn't pause other than the quick look; she is fixated on the goal now and he stifles a groan when she grips him through his pants. Any last doubts become unimportant, his apprehension unable to compete with the feel of her fingers fumbling with his zipper and pushing their way into his black boxer-briefs. The sensation of her bare hands on him makes his knees feel weak.
She makes a wordless sound of need and he reaches under her skirt and finds satin panties and pulls them down until they fall from her thighs to her delicate ankles. Lise kicks off one of her low heels and pulls her foot free of her underwear, one hand still wrapped around him and her other hand under her skirt now too, finding his fingers and guiding them inside her. She doesn't think she has ever been this turned on in her entire life and she imagines she is so wet her thighs are probably soaked all the way down to her knees.
His fingers slide inside her and she leans back against the wall, her eyes closing and her lips parting, her breath catching in her chest. When she does that she suddenly becomes the archetype of every woman Chris has ever dreamed about, every part of her emanating lust and pure animal need, and all for him. His hand comes away slick and he pushes his underwear down and she rouses a little but then he's pushing her hand off and pressing her tight between his body and the wall. He doesn't even know whether she lifts her skirt or he does it for her but there's no mistaking her consent as she reaches down to guide him in.
Chris has time to think "we should probably be using a condom" but then he is inside her and she is tight around him and he thinks "I'll just pull out" and then her leg rises, smooth skin gliding up the back of his calves and coming to rest against the back of his thighs, and now he is not thinking at all.
Her thoughts are jumbled but she still has some, although now they've become primitive, all the things she would usually say but she has to keep quiet because they're in public: "oh God this feels good" and "yes, oh yes" and "please go harder."
Hands are rough on her ass, his fingers digging into her hard enough to hurt as he holds her tight against him. She shifts her hips, meeting his thrusts, feeling the need in his body match her own. Lise wraps her arms around his back and feels the bunching of his muscles as he moves and thinks "oh Chris, yes, just like that."
He doesn't pull out when he comes, his body shuddering with the intensity of his orgasm, and she holds him close in case his knees buckle. As it passes he's left panting and drained but he's steady on his feet and she cautiously loosens her embrace. She can feel his come dripping from her body and she is ambivalent about that; she's grown up in an era where come has never been innocuous, where semen can be an agent of death and so it should be contained within a condom. Yet there is something primal and right about this, a sense of "I have accepted him inside me and made him mine and that is the proof."
Lise's arms relax and he pulls free of her hug. There is silence as they dress themselves but it is an oddly comfortable quiet. They're finished and so there is no need to impress each other with idle chit-chat. When they're ready to go they look at each other. She says, "That was good."
He nods and smiles at her. He has a lovely smile and she thinks "he should smile more often." "It was. Thanks."
After a moment they both laugh at this inadequate exchange, then she says, "Do you make it over to SoCal often?"
Chris shrugs and touches her cheek, stroking it gently. "Sometimes. A few times a year usually."
She puts her hand over his and holds it against her cheek for a moment. "I'll give you my number. I can be your SoCal booty call."
He smiles and searches his pockets for his phone. "I'd like that. Lisa D?"
"Lise with an E, and yeah, last initial's fine." She recites her phone number and he keys it in. They smile at each other again. "Will you call next time you're in town?"
She laughs. "I thought you said earlier 'no promises'."
He gives her a rueful grin. "We see how that went." He moves to hug her and she can feel the strength in his body when he holds her close. They embrace for a minute and then separate. "I'm glad we met."
"Me too. Call me, okay?"
He nods and after a last lingering glance he murmurs, "Peace, Lise," then opens the stall door and walks out. She waits a moment longer, hugging herself and smiling, before she leaves the bathroom. When she exits she can just see the back of his lean form at the end of the terminal, the black jeans and black hoodie with the hood up, before he walks out of view.