“Dance.”

*

“Sit …you must sit.” I pushed lightly on his chest, and he stepped back, sitting on the sofa that after months of his living here and sitting there nightly, now bore the imprint of his body. I moved to the wet bar, opened the cabinet, removing a Waterford snifter, reached for the Baron de Sigognac Armagnac, that distillate of the finest of white French grapes, pouring it into the snifter, and crossing the room to hand it to him. He clasped both hands around the bowl of the snifter, allowing their heat to warm the proceeds of the fruit. The light from the fire flickered rainbows off the deep cuts in the crystal, the prisms reflecting off his face as he sat back in the chair. He smiled up at me as I stood before him, his voice a low rumble when he spoke.

“You forget nothing, do you?” I leaned down and kissed him softly.

“Where you are concerned, I forget nothing; I never will.” Others have, on occasion, chided him, laughing at his penchant for “fine French liquor,” and both of us smiled inwardly at each reference. Perhaps he does have exotic tastes, but that is appropriate, as he is the most exotic man I have ever known. I have as much of a taste for Armagnac as does he, and, after swirling the amber liquid in the snifter and taking a small sip, he handed the snifter to me. I drank and returned it to him, enjoying the bloom of flavour on my palate. Crossing to the mantle and slipping the finger cymbals that lay there onto my hands, I turned and looked at him.

“How may I serve you, General?” The fire leapt into his eyes, as I had known it would. He settled back on the sofa, relaxing, knees flexed, legs comfortably apart. My gaze dropped to his groin, noting the bulge that was beginning to grow there. My eyes returned to his face. He tongue crept out, and he licked his lips.

*

“Dance.”

*

One word spoken softly, a request when spoken to me, rather than the command I knew it had been when spoken to others in his past. The sound of drums from the CD filled the room as I turned again to look at him, arms extended. My hands went to my hair, pulled high in a French twist. He rose to meet me, one hand stopping the movement of my own.

“Not yet …release it as you dance.” He smiled at me as he sat again and settled comfortably …his smile …the one I treasured more than any I had ever known. The light in his eyes was warm now. I knew that in a few minutes that light would burn with heat, with the passion I had come to know so well, the passion it thrilled me to elicit in him. I twirled once before him as the drumbeat filled the lounge.

“Dance for me …only for me …dance as you have never done for any other man.” I went down on one knee and bowed low, my head almost touching the floor. Rising slowly, I moved slowly across the room and turned to him. Arms held wide, enhancing my breasts as the firelight flickered over both of us. I had waited for this moment; this was my gift to him on this night.

*

A few minutes earlier, as we sat in the lounge after an early dinner, I had excused myself and gone to our bedroom, undressed, and put on the costume I had worn years ago …almost in another life.

Fabric of the sheerest gossamer silk, so fine as to be translucent, hand-loomed by the wife of the Damascus merchant from whom I had purchased it. I lay the costume on the bed and walked to my dressing room, removing my clothing, and standing nude before the mirror. I picked up the bottle of pearlized liquid rouge and applied it to my nipples, applied gloss to my lips, then picked up the bottle of scented oil and poured it into my hands, rubbing them together before spreading it lightly over the rest of my body. I turned the dimmer switch low, approximating the light level in the lounge; my body glowed in the dim light ...yes, precisely the effect I wanted. Returning to the bedroom, I drew on the pants with their diaphanous, loose trousers, then the top, a simple bandeau affair with no sleeves. Dressed, I went to my jewel safe, withdrawing the gold body bangles I’d not worn in years. I returned to the dressing room and fastened them around my body, just above my breasts, the ropes of bangles falling to below my hips. I slipped on the wrist and ankle bangles and turned to the mirror for a last look. Perfect. My General would be well pleased this night.

When I returned to the lounge, he was standing in darkness on the deck, the cool October air beginning to chill the room. Moving silently on bare feet, I went to the CD cabinet and pulled the one I wanted from its case and put it into the player, selecting the track I wanted and pressed repeat play. I doubted I would get through the first playing. He turned quickly when he heard the music; he recognized it …the 13^th recording on the CD. It was a film soundtrack, a film we had seen together. The piece was not composed for dancing; rather it was background music for a naval battle.

I waited for him in front of the fireplace, the flames backlighting me, making my form easily visible through the sheerness of the silk. As he turned toward me, I heard the intake of his breath over the low thrum of the music. The music would increase in volume and tempo over the next five minutes and seven seconds before beginning again; it was still quite low at this point, like the beginning of Ravel’s Bolero. He walked toward me, and as he came closer, I could see his eyes dilate; his nostrils flare as he inhaled my scent …the scent of a woman lusting for her man. I turned around then back to face him, arms extended as I smiled at him. One word.

*

“Dance.”

*

Certe, but …not yet.

After seating him in his chair and taking a sip of the Armagnac he had offered me, I went to the center of the room, my feet barely a whisper on the hardwood floor. I waited a moment as the music approached the point I most liked for the way I preferred to begin …with an initial pivot. It began.

I held out my arms and leant my head backward, and began the pivot …once, twice, a third time. One foot to the side for balance as I began the undulation of my hips, letting the movement travel up my body until the muscles in my belly moved like the surf in a storm. Eyes almost closed as I spun again, leaning backward, arms out to accentuate my breasts and body. I heard his voice, commanding now, and hoarse with desire.

“Take down your hair.” My hands moved to my head, reaching for the hairpins that held my hair in place, removing the first of them and letting them scatter across the floor as the weight of my hair pulled the rest away as it tumbled free, falling over my body to just below my breasts. Moving swiftly now, crossing the floor and kneeling in front of him, arms still extended, hair falling to partially cover my breasts as I undulated in front of him, my breasts almost in his face. His hand came out almost involuntarily to touch me, and I slipped away from him, hearing his frustrated groan as I moved across the floor. My hips shimmied in time with the drums, faster and faster as I moved away from him, undulating as I moved across the floor. Spinning again, my hair flying out around me like a cloud. I could feel his desire …it was a living thing, as palpable as the sheen of oil and sweat on my body. I watched him through half-closed eyes, gauging his response.

Calculating. Predatory. Deadly. Right of Conquest.

Consider those words carefully; they may not imply what you believe.

Calculating …of course, he was calculating. His life and those of his legions had depended upon his ability to calculate the strengths and weaknesses of his enemies and to take the necessary advantage before it slipped from his grasp.

Predatory …he was a raptor, a bird of prey or, possibly, a great cat. The Roman Eagle. Predators observe their prey before committing themselves to the strike. Raptors hover, virtually motionless. Big cats lie in wait, carefully stalking until close enough to launch a successful assault. Timing is everything.

Deadly. Correct calculation and effective predatory skills can be deadly; it is not always so. I knew he had killed in the past, on many occasions; given the appropriate stimulus, he could and would do so again. The death he extracted this night would be for both of us …le petite mort.

Right of Conquest. I knew he had taken the women of those he had conquered on the field of battle, lying with them beside the bodies of their mortally wounded men. It was his right as Conqueror; he was the Wolf of Rome. I understood the necessity of total conquest. Oftentimes, conquest of the women of the enemy was all that stood between total surrender and a renewed attack. Strike first. Demoralize your enemy. Take his woman as he lay dying, watching you, powerless to intervene …as he would do to you, were the positions reversed. Their women would spread the word that he gave no quarter. It was a necessary part of that world. I understood the brutality of his age. I knew his time.

He was watching me now …calculating the moment for his strike, biding his time until his conquest was complete. He was an apex predator in his prime …deadly to his enemies, never so to me. He stood, rising slowly, like a tawny cat, moving silently across the room to refill his glass, his eyes never leaving my form as I moved to the increasing tempo of the drums.

He raised the snifter to his lips, not sipping this time, but taking a full draught before he sat the snifter on the bar and refilled it. He was so close to me now, and I moved closer still, leaning backward, my hair skimming the floor as I spun on one foot. Through the fabric of his jeans, I could see the muscles in his thighs bunch preparatory to his strike.

As I rose toward vertical, his hand shot out, grabbing a fistful of my hair and pulling me into his body before bending me backward again as his body loomed over mine.

“Do not move.”

I froze, motionless but for the heaving of my chest as I panted from the exertion of the dance. One arm behind me at the waist, the other hand tangled in my hair, holding my head in place with my neck arched backward and exposed for the wolf’s strike. His mouth at my throat …he could feel the rapid beating of my pulse as his lips moved over my throat, kissing softly. He straightened, bringing me up with him.

*

“Dance.”

*

“Remove your garments.” I resumed the dance as the recording moved into its second playing. Running my hands over my body, palms flattened, from my hips to my breasts, slowly unhooking the bodice of the top, allowing it to fall open as I moved. Leaning back again, another spin, arms extended, opening the bodice over my heaving breasts. I reached above my head, hands meeting and removing the finger cymbals and dropping them to the floor. Returning to the upright, hips moving constantly as I danced closer to him.

Now within the reach of his large hands, I tugged at the bodice, extricating one arm from the sheer silk, and allowing half of the jacket to fall away. Then the other arm before dropping the top to the floor; I now had nothing but the curtain of bangles on the upper half of my body. As I danced past him, his hand shot out, capturing mine for a moment before releasing it. The tempo of the drums increased, and my hands went to the tiny zip at the back of my pants, moving it downward and allowing them to fall to the floor, stepping out of the pool of luminous silk. Clad now only in bangles and oil, I moved toward him again. Now only inches from him, I heard his breath grow laboured, harsh. I closed my eyes as I continued to move before him, extending my arms again and offering my body in that age-old posture of invitation, of complete submission.

I felt, rather than saw him stand, felt rather than saw him pull his sweater off and toss it away. Heard the faint rasp of the teeth of the zipper opening, sensed his removal of his jeans before kicking them away. He was barefoot. I heard the whisper of his feet on the floor as he moved to take me. His arms enfolded me, pulling me in, bangles pressing into our heated skin as he held my sweating and oil-slicked body tightly to his own.

“What we do in life, echoes in Eternity …and Cara, you are mine ….”

Fin