Hot In Here. Susan Lyons
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just tanned arms with exactly the right amount of musculature.
“Take a picture!” Ann ordered.
Damn, Jenny’d been so caught up in watching, she hadn’t taken a single shot. Hurriedly she lifted her camera and took a few full-body shots, then zoomed in on his face. Strong planes, vivid blue eyes, light brown hair with blond streaks that caught the light. Serious, not smiling or flirting with the audience as the others had done.
In fact, it was almost as if he were unaware of the audience. As if he were alone, listening to that sultry music as wisps of smoke curled up around him.
The saxophone climbed high, intense, and the man’s head moved a little. Then his upper body, in time with the music. Then, finally, he stepped forward and began to dance.
To tap dance.
She’d never seen anything like it. His shoes were tap shoes, but this was no slick Gene Kelly, An American in Paris–type of tap, nor was it the Celtic Riverdance style. It was slow, almost shuffly, bluesy. And very, very sexy.
She squeezed her thighs together. Way sexier than the silver-haired guy.
The man on stage would take a scuffing step, hip thrusting forward and out, then do a kind of muffled drumroll of taps, heel to toe. His posture was perfect, but graceful and fluid rather than stiff, and his arms moved sensually in opposition to his legs. He made Jenny think of a tango dancer with an imaginary partner.
Tap, tango, blues…whatever you called it, this was the sexiest dance ever invented.
“Is it hot in here?” she gasped, torn between staring, mesmerized, and taking pictures. Awesome pictures, what with the smoke, the blue light and the man.
“That’s amazing.” Rina sighed. “Don’t you just want to take him home?”
Take him home for her own private dancer. Oh, yeah. No question about it.
Well, okay, not home, where she lived with her old-school family. But somewhere, anywhere where she could be alone with him and jump those beautiful bones.
A minute or two into the number, he slipped off the tux vest and tossed it casually on the pile of firefighter clothes.
There was only one word for his torso. No, two. Holy shit!
It was perfect. Firm pecs, a drift of damp hair plastered to his body, arrowing down a lean abdomen. Her fingers itched to touch him.
The tux pants shifted and, growing damp with sweat, clung as he moved. Jenny zoomed in with her camera. Wow. He was getting turned on, too.
Had she said beautiful bones? Try beautiful boner!
It wasn’t just her fingers itching now.
She licked her lips. “Nothing dysfunctional about that guy’s package,” she told her friends.
She zoomed up to his face. His expression was intense, focused. Focused on the saxophone or on his own arousal? Definitely not on the audience. It was as if he didn’t see the hundreds of people whose attention he’d captured so completely. The crowd was silent now, but for an occasional whisper, the rustle of clothing, the clink of ice cubes.
It was as if none of them mattered to him.
Somehow this man’s bearing, his distance from his audience, was far more arousing than the in-your-face lewdness of the other guys who’d performed.
Arousing.
Her black silk thong was soaked and her pussy was throbbing with need.
“Mr. February,” she announced to her friends. No question, the bluesy tap dancer, the smoky saxophone guy, would win the most coveted slot.
“There’s still six more to go,” Suzanne murmured.
“Not relevant.” Didn’t Suze get it? No one could top this man.
The music ended and the blue spotlight shut off, making the audience gasp. The dancer was gone.
But then the spot came back on and he was standing quietly, hands clasped in front of him. Hiding his erection? For the first time he made eye contact with the audience, and they were yelling the roof off. He smiled—kinda cocky. Kinda…relieved? Definitely sexy.
Damn, he was hot.
She was trapped inside a body that was burning up with lust, and she knew just the firefighter who could rescue her.
Yeah, she wanted this guy. She wanted those hot, sweaty muscles, she wanted that supremely functional dick. She wanted him to concentrate as intensely on her as he had on the music, to be even more turned on, to move inside her the way he’d moved to that saxophone.
The thought of him inside her made her squirm with need.
This was so unlike her. Sure, she’d hooked up with her fair share of guys—and there was nothing shy about her when it came to sex!—but she’d never felt like flinging herself on top of a total stranger.
“Take it off!” a woman screamed, her high voice piercing the roar of the crowd.
“Woohoo!” Jenny cheered.
The man’s grin widened. His hands went to the waistband of his pants and fiddled with the button, and now more women—and the gay guys—were chanting, “Take it off!”
It seemed as if his eyes were searching the crowd and Jenny felt their sparkling blueness pass over her, Ann, Suzanne and Rina. His hands left his waist and went to his neck. He peeled off the bow tie and tossed it—directly toward their foursome.
“Suze, grab it!” Rina ordered.
Suzanne—the tallest of their group—reached up. Another eager girl jostled her and they both stumbled. The bow tie fell neatly into Jenny’s hands.
Laughing, Jenny raised her hands as high as they could go, flaunting her trophy. For a moment her eyes met those of the man on stage and he winked. Then the spotlight went off and this time he was gone for good.
He’d winked. Had he actually thrown the bow tie to her? Jenny’s heart was racing. Had he seen her in the crowd, singled her out? Was the bow tie a sign he wanted her, too?
Nah, that was crazy. She’d done nothing to make him want, much less even notice, her. But maybe, if she interviewed him later…
“Jen, sit down.” Ann was tugging her hand. “The next guy’s coming on.”
More? Shouldn’t the night end with the best?
She sank into her chair, realizing her legs were wobbly. “It’s gonna be downhill from here,” she told the others as she looped the bow tie around her neck. Mmm. It was damp and smelled all musky and male.
And her thong, the inside of her thighs, couldn’t get any wetter.
The next firefighter was a bust, which was a relief because her body could settle down a bit. The guy was Chinese-Canadian, about the same size as the pole-dancing woman. Good-looking, but he couldn’t dance worth a damn.
“Hate to criticize my own kind,” Jenny told her friends, “but Asian men should stick to martial arts. When it comes to dance, they’re pretty wimpy.” She cast a sly glance at Suzanne. “And while I’m stereotyping, got any comment on Jaxon?” Her friend was long-distance dating—and phone- and cyber-sexing—an African-American man who lived in San Francisco.
Suzanne gave a self-satisfied smile. “Oh, yeah, Jaxon has an amazing sense of rhythm.” She winked. “Even on the dance floor.”
“Go ahead, rub it in,” Ann said. “You’re the only one of us who’s had good sex in ages.”
“You have to actually go out with a guy to have good sex,” Suzanne pointed out. “You’re always working.”
“Jen and I go out,” Rina said. “Just not with as much success as you.”
“Your