"So how does this work exactly?"

He watched as Libby rose gracefully and moved to a pair of double doors, no doubt the portal to her inner sanctum where the real action took place.

"It will take me a few minutes to prepare."

Would it?  He hadn't expected that but he nodded all the same.  In for a penny, in for a pound.

As it turned out, her 'few minutes' was closer to half an hour.  He probably should have used the time to sober up a little, but he was more an all-or-nothing sort of fellow.  It was no use turning back now.  To pass the time, he poured himself another drink and took out his packet of cigarettes.  Who bloody knew if smoking was allowed in this posh place, but he didn't much care.  Surely it had to be one of the more tame rules that had been broken in this particular suite?

He didn't bear the waiting well.  He went from sitting to standing to pacing.  The time to think over his decision was discomfiting.  Normally he wasn't the sort to rethink anything once he'd decided on a course of action, and yet in this case there was still some sliver inside him that knew the decision he'd taken probably wasn't the wisest course of action.  And yet when the doors opened, he didn't even hesitate to accept the invitation inside.  

Where the receiving room had been bright and sunny, this room was far more intimate.  Darker, both in terms of light and in terms of décor.  Tones of deep chocolate, burnt orange and burnished gold gave the room a rich sultry feel.  The lighting was lower and warmer, creating cozy pockets of deep shadow and softly illuminating the antique woodwork.  It was intimate without being overtly seductive.

A small piano dominated one side of the room.  Beside it, a stringed wooden instrument was cloaked in shadow.  A cello, maybe?  On the other side of the room held a magnificent pair of ornately carved wooden doors that led deeper into the dark warren of private rooms.  They had been left slightly ajar, invitingly.  The bedroom?  Now there was a room that had probably seen a lot of broken rules.  Best not give that too close a look just yet.  His attention returned to the space surrounding him.     

An elegant display of simple food on a silver platter was spread out on a low table before a handsome couch.  The selection of olives, cheese, meats and fruit seemed to invite even more intimacy; a meal meant to be eaten together on the floor; perhaps even to be fed to each other.  There was no silverware.  A bottle of very expensive wine sat uncorked beside it.  There was only one glass.  

The finest morsel of all was Libby.  She looked different somehow and she made a gesture as he entered that wasn't quite a curtsy, but it was demure.  Perfectly pitched to give the impression that he was the one in control.

"Come.  Sit.  Would you like some wine?"

She poured him a glass and retreated.  He used the moment to observe her, to put his finger on what was different.   It wasn't just her clothes.  She had changed and was now wearing a pair of pale worn jeans paired with a feminine black blouse that was deceptively modest.  It covered her fully and yet when she moved in a certain way it was just sheer enough that he could see a hint of her nipple.  The deep color of the material made her hair look more blonde and her skin more golden, and it was the perfect backdrop to showcase the soft swell of her upturned breasts. 

Her face was different too, more fresh and natural and she was wearing jewelry now, a collection ethnic bohemian pieces that seemed an amalgamation of beads and gold wire and cording of some natural fiber.  Her earrings were long and dangly and brushed her slender neck when she moved, repeatedly bringing his attention to that vulnerable place.  She'd put some clips in her hair, pulling up random pieces in a casual style.  The fact that he could see some tasteful diamonds winking at him saved the style from appearing too childish.  And most alluring of all, her feet were bare.  The earthy sensuality in that was a hundred times more intimate and arousing than the dirtiest fuck-me heels.

Inside Libby trembled, unsure quite how to handle her prickly companion.  She had an inkling, but was flying tonight more on intuition than on her usual carefully mapped out plan.  It was clear from the heat in his eyes that he appreciated the change in her appearance.  He would.  While still polished, it was a more casual style and it gave the subtle impression of innocence and a youthful joie de vivre, quite a different face from her jaded cynicism. 

Feeling his eyes on her, Libby wondered what he would make of the two small golden balls she had inserted into her vagina before slipping into her clothes.  She preferred the elegant Burmese Bells to a more conventional sex aide.  Hers were made of gold and had a small chime inside.  She couldn't really say why she'd worn them.  Perhaps it was because she knew even though he'd prefer a veneer of respectability, he would have been disappointed had he not tasted a touch of the unconventionally exotic with her, should things turn sexual later.  Or perhaps it was just because she couldn't stand another moment in the same room with him without something to assuage that hollow ache his presence inspired deep inside her.  

His eyes hadn't left her, but he hadn't spoken since he'd taken the wineglass either.

"Would you care for a smoke?"

He shook his head, tapping the pack in his pocket absently.

She laughed lightly.  "No.  A smoke."

Ahh.  Now he understood.  He accepted the proffered vice with a smile and drew in a deep lungful of the pungent herb.  Letting the warmth buzz through him, he watched her wiggle her toes into the thick pile of the fine silk carpet.  It annoyed him a little that she hadn't come to sit by him yet.  He didn't want to hang about all night, waiting for... God knows what to happen.

He got up and went to join her.  His limited patience was already strained.  Inwardly, Libby smiled.  He had been uncomfortable earlier when she'd so deeply invaded his personal space.  Now that she'd held herself apart, he was deliberately seeking her out.  In her experience, men didn't like to have things taken from them, even things they claimed not to want.

They made deeper intimate small talk this time, touching on more personal topics; religion and politics mostly, with a smattering of old sexual history thrown in.  First dates, first kisses and a list of other sexual firsts.  It felt oddly like a first date in some ways.

While they talked, she moved to light a candle.  He followed.  She moved again, this time settling by the couch.  Again, he followed.  By the time she'd made her way to the piano, he'd worked it out and pulled himself up short.

"Touché, madam."  He held up their shared glass.

This time she did curtsey with a little flourish and smiled.  Most men never realized what he had worked out in only a few minutes, but then again, he wasn't after what her regular clients wanted.  Or was he?  He was a hard read, and the wine and the hits she'd taken weren't exactly helping her mental acuity--but they were making a pleasant hazy sort of heat begin to thrum deep inside her.  

"So the chase is on," he observed.  It wasn't a question.  He wasn't one of her typical dates.  He was clinically observing everything that happened tonight as much as experiencing it.

"If you want to call it that."

"What do you call it?"

Business.   

Only with him, it wasn't.  It was purely pleasure.  "Foreplay," she said simply.

The honesty in her answer disturbed him and he was well beyond controlling himself as he lashed back to disguise his discomfort.  "So this is it then?"  Have cunt, will travel?  He almost hoped he hadn't said that last bit aloud. 

She gave him an unreadable look.  "Imagine you find yourself on the far side of the world."

The corner of his lips twitched.  Oh, if she only knew the half of it...

"Now imagine you are lonely.  Bored--"

"Horny."

That made her smile.  "One call and I am there with you.  No tantrums.  No strings."

Other than the fantastic price she commanded for her time, he thought uncharitably.

"We already know each other.  We have a past.  History.  Memories of other nights like tonight.  We're comfortable together.  We have fun.  We have--"  

"Sex."

"Not just sex.  Amazing, stupendous, sweaty, brain-searing, bone-melting sex."

"And then we go back to our lives, is that it?"  He was beginning to understand the allure.  How many nights had he spent exactly like that--alone in some strange place, wishing for someone to share it with, to share himself with?  It would be so easy to fall into that rhythm--but what then?  There was no future in it.  No chance of more.  No love.  No forever.          

"Yes."

"Do you really like it?"  

"My job?"  She knew that wasn't what he was asking.

"The sex."  Of course.  But most men didn't have the balls to ask her.

"Yes, I do."

"Do you come?"  He held her unwavering gaze, giving no quarter--with the realization there would be none for himself when his turn came.  

"Most of the time."  

Ballocks.  He looked as if he didn't believe her. 

"I am very particular about the men I choose see.  I find most of them attractive.  Some of them I even like."  She could see him digesting that one.    

"What about women?"

"What about them?"

"Any women clients?"  It was totally outside the scope of the research he needed for the role, but he'd long since crossed that particular line.

Her lips twitched in amusement.  "No..."

"But?"

"But my clients always get what they want in the end, at least where sex is involved.  Sometime that involves another woman."  She didn't elaborate, nor did she need to.  His imagination had already painted that picture vividly in his mind.

"Do you like it?"

"It's.... different."

"Different how?"  The drugs were making it too easy to speak his mind without censor.  He knew he shouldn't ask, and yet he didn't even try to stop himself.

That drew a delicate huff of amusement from her.  "You've kissed a man before.  You tell me."  

Her answer was unexpected and he giggled, dispelling the oppressively sexual mood that had settled between them.  She stroked the neck of the cello beside her with an idle sensuality, still thinking about him entwined with another gorgeous young man--All that furred golden skin, all that youthful energetic passion... all that prime cock on display!  Her job had broadened her already burgeoning tastes.  She had a sophisticated palate now, one that included an appreciation for the beauty of two men together.

He understood the passion inherent in the telltale gesture as he watched her fingertips glide over the cello's satiny wood.  "Do you play?"  He changed the subject.  He did not want to pursue a line of questioning that would lead to him thinking of her with other men.  Or him with other men.  He shuddered.   

She nodded.

"Play for me."  It felt a little awkward issuing the command, but he wanted to test the waters, to see how far she would take this--and to see how far his own control extended; not just the extent of his control over her, but his control over himself as well.  Would she really do what he asked?  Did he really want her to?  Did the kind of men who saw her want her to?  Did it really matter anymore?

He sat back, swallowed by a deep leather chair--knees spread wide in an unconscious mirror of her limbs as she took her seat and fit the cello between her open thighs.  Libby shivered lightly as the Burmese bells shifted minutely inside her.  She played for him.  It was painfully erotic.  As her arms moved, her breasts swayed under the fine fabric of her blouse.  She felt the friction.  He watched the gentle rhythmic movement of her nipple under the cloth as her bow slid across the taut strings.  She had a lovely vibrato and played with an ease he envied.  The musician in him appreciated her fine relationship with such a harsh mistress.  The man in him reveled in the round dulcet tone; it was one of his favorite sounds.  The beast in him lusted, aroused by her grace and by her mastery of the object between her legs.

Her bare foot kept time on the carpet.  Her nipples were hard.  Her pulse throbbed at her neck.  He could see it pounding there and felt a matching echo between his legs.  He was also hard.  She finished the sensual energetic piece, breathing faster than normal.

"Bravo."  He nodded, watching her hands caress the fine instrument.  "You play very well."

"Thank you."  She smiled at him.  He was being kind.  The wine and dulled her enough that she'd missed several notes.  "I play better sober.... what about you?"  She was leading again.  Would he follow this time?

His smile was lazy.  "Now that depends on the game."

She carefully stowed the cello and they returned to the couch.  "Which kind of game do you prefer?"

"The kind I have to work at winning."

"I see."  Sharing a sip from his glass, she fed him an olive and then took a bite of fruit for herself.  "How do you think you're doing so far?"

"That depends."

"On?"

"On where we go from here."

"Where do you want to go?"

He shook his head.  "Oh, no.  I'm not telling you that.  Not after you told me you deliberately withhold what a man tells you he wants.  You have to work out what I want for yourself."

"Are you sure it's not because you're afraid to tell me?"  

He didn't even dignify that with a reply.  He wasn't about to be led by her.  Not again.  Rolling an olive between his fingers, a new idea hit him hard and the more he thought about it, the more intrigued he became until it filled him to bursting.  Turning to her, he named one of his films.  "Have you seen it?"

Libby nodded.  "Of course.  How many Oscars did that win?  Everyone's seen it."  

"Okie dokie.  Say he walked through that door tonight instead of me.  How would this night have been different?"

"Try it and see."  It was a deliberate challenge.

And it was exactly what he was hoping for.  The rational part of his brain that was still functioning knew having two different experiences to compare was more than he ever could have hoped for.  A second perspective was just what he needed to get the answers he was after.  The other part of his brain was buzzing with what might happen if he really gave himself over to what was happening between them tonight. 

"And if I do?  I'm not waiting another half hour for you."  He didn't want to lose the momentum of the night.

She considered that.  "Ten minutes then."

"Five."

"Done."  It was barely enough time, but for him--for this--she would make it work.

He began to stand but she pressed him back.  "No.  Stay."  She glanced pointedly toward the doors leading back to the salon where he'd been received earlier.  "There's no point in moving backwards."  Rising gracefully, she slipped through the doors leading to the bedroom.

Behind the door, Libby few into action.  Time was going to be tight and she knew he wouldn't cut her any slack.  Not now.  Not when he was so close to what he wanted. 

On the other side of the door, he was also readying himself.  Pausing only to light up, he rolled up his sleeves to reveal thick golden forearms and unbuttoned his shirt further at the throat.  Ignoring the pang of warning as he untucked it from his pants, he slipped out of his shoes and socks as well.  The fine rug did feel sinfully good against his bare soles.  

He didn't wait this time.  When the allotted time was up, he rapped sharply on the door.

It opened.  Libby had transformed herself yet again.  She was flushed and her face was moist, but it lent her an earthy dewy quality that he very much liked.  Her coral skirt and loose cream blouse made her coloring appear darker this time, almost brunette.  The style disguised her slim figure and gave the impression of a more lushly rounded body.  Her hair was up and delicate gold earrings dangled from her ears.  A gold and garnet pendant was nestled between her small breasts.  Looking past her he saw a side table set with chocolates and brandy and the warm glow of several candles.

He acknowledged her with a nod.  "Mistress."

"Master."  She nodded back, the gesture imbued with a deep respect as she invited him inside.  The change in his appearance boded well for things to come.  He had finally embraced her offer.

The game played out again.  Though they spoke on the same topics, they didn't cover any of the same ground.  And why should they?  They weren't the same people they'd been only moments before.  Even her voice was different.  Softer.  Slower.  More alluring.

This time he was aware when he followed her and he did it by choice.  The WC was luxuriously appointed--and nobody could blame him for having need of it after all the alcohol they'd shared tonight.  They didn't even stop talking.  She went first and he followed, hauling out the thick column of flesh without a second thought.  Libby watched, unembarrassed by the crude display.  He had an impressive cock and she liked the way it looked in his hand. 

He watched her watching him, telling himself he wasn't really breaking any of the rules.  A piss was a piss, right?  Was it any different from standing at a busy urinal?  So it was a woman who saw him instead of a man?  Guilt warred with satisfaction.  She wanted him.  And she liked what she saw.  Fair play to her.  He'd liked what he'd seen too. 

Later, reclined back on an oversized chaise, he savored another chocolate and watched her through heavy lidded eyes.  "You're extraordinary."  He didn't even try to sensor the awe in his voice. 

The sincerity in the compliment caught her off guard.  "Pardon?"  He'd slipped out of character just as easily as he'd slipped into it.  She could sense the change.  It was subtle, but it was there all the same.  He was different now.  More animated.   

"Your ability to become someone else."  He'd been privileged to work with some of the best actors in the world.  She could hold her own with any of them.  Perhaps even more so.  They all worked from a script.  She flew without a net, transforming herself, tailoring herself merely by reading the subtle cues and nuances in her partner.  When he used the word extraordinary, he meant it.  It was an impressive gift.

"Your talent for--"

"Reinventing myself?"

He nodded.  If she chose, she could take Hollywood by storm.  Golden Globes.  Oscars.  BAFTAs.  She could have the world at her feet.  "You are a director's dream.  I could get you work.  One phone call and any door would be open to you.  You could work anywhere."   

She laughed lightly.  "I already do."  It was hardly the first time a man had made her that offer, though he was probably the first one who'd extended it in earnest, without any hidden strings.

"You know what I mean."

Libby shook her head.  "Too high a price for me, but I appreciate the offer."

Her words, though kind, sent a stab of dangerously unstable displeasure stinging through him.  A woman who sold herself for money found what he did so distasteful as to be beneath her?  That was rich!  "Well excuse me, princess.  I won't fucking make that offer again." 

"I wouldn't expect you to."  

His surly glower was as black as his mood and he knocked back the rest of his drink quickly.  

Touched a nerve, had she?  Good.  She intended to touch a few more.  It was obvious that he still didn't like the comparison between their respective careers--and the fact that she preferred hers to his.  Men often dealt with assertive women by fucking them to restore their primacy.  How better to best a woman than to have her mewling and at his mercy, pushed to that mindless place where they begged for his touch?  The men she saw believed they got exactly what they wanted from her.  And sometimes they did--but few ever realized that in the process, they gave her what she wanted as well, far above and beyond any monetary compensation. 

The real question here was: Would he?

He was volatile by nature and his temper, fueled by drink and by sexual frustration, got the better of him.  He swung his arm wide.  "This is all just an act!  It's not real.  None of it.  Not even you."

If he thought she was going to protest, he was wrong.  "Of course it's an act."  Her words deflated his impassioned assault.  "But that's what you refuse to accept.  There's always some part of our behavior in all our relationships that's an act."

"I pity the man in one with you then, if that's what you think."

She didn't let his painful barb deter her.  "As if you're the same person here tonight with me that you are with your mother?  Come on!  You said it yourself... even this on and off again thing you have... when you're on the job at winning her back again, surely you go out of your way to make everything perfect.  Nobody can be on their best behavior forever.  Things change.  Eventually, you remake yourself as the dynamic changes, just like I do....."

He hated that she had a point; however the leg she was standing on was so slim it was barely a glimmer.  "The difference being there is real emotion driving me, not the almighty fucking dollar."  His face changed, once again assuming a stoic mask and that mantle of violence, barely leashed by the stricture of duty and honor.  

So that was how he was going to play it then?  Hiding behind a character?

She slapped him.  Hard.  More to see how he'd respond than because she was offended.  How could she be?  What he said was the truth.  Mostly she wanted to touch him, or drive him to touch her.  And to see just how--or rather who--responded when she deliberately provoked him. 

He lunged at her, wrapping one beefy hand around her slender throat.  There was real violence in his eyes and the hand at her neck was not gentle.  They stared, each unwilling to give an inch--but he felt her pulse race with real apprehension under his fingers and he knew he'd won.  "Are you not entertained?" he growled.  The hand at her throat gentled, but didn't release her.  Not yet.

She'd have preferred a response not hidden beneath the veneer of a character, however appealing a fantasy it might be.  She wanted the real man and he was still playing to an audience of one.  "So you are a whore after all," she responded softly, still defiant even with his fingers wrapped around her slim neck.  

Her response infuriated him, and at the same time disarmed him.  He had always loved it when a witty retort caught him off guard when he thought he had won.  It made the true act of winning all the more pleasurable to have beaten a formidable opponent.  He turned her loose with the grace of a man well used to touching a woman.  She put her hand to her throat to feel the lingering heat his skin had left upon hers and the fire inside her grew hotter still.  Her fingers burned where she'd slapped him and the mark of her hand was on his face.  It was oddly thrilling to see him carrying her mark, however fleeting.

"Let me guess--this is all part of the 'something indefinable' you were going to show me?"  He threw himself down into the nearest chair in petulant disgust.  She sank down on her knees before him in absolution, her small frame easily fitting between his open legs.  "Thanks so much, love.  I'm having the best time tonight," he muttered sarcastically.  He put his head in his hands.  "I can't believe I came here for this..."  None of this was at all what he'd expected.  She'd knocked him back from the beginning, challenging him and shaking the foundations of several things he'd firmly believed, even shattering a few. 

"So why did you come then?"  Her words were soft and low.  Her heart was beating very fast.  Softly.  Softly.... she was nearly there.  And sometimes it was easier to tell a stranger something personal than someone whose opinion of you mattered deeply.

It was a good question.  Why had he come?  For the information he was seeking about the character he was researching was the short answer, but perhaps an incomplete one.  To test himself?  To understand something about himself?  To understand something about women?     

"To understand something," he said finally.

"Tell me..."  She didn't touch him, but she was close enough that he could smell the light erotic scent of her skin and feel the warmth radiating from her.

His head was a jumble of volatile thoughts, all swirling around one central theme.  If he could just find some way of unlocking the mystery to understanding women, perhaps he might just be successful at keeping the one he really wanted to spend the rest of his life with.  The booze and the pot swirling in his system made focusing his thoughts difficult, even as it loosened his tongue.

"I understand wanting to penetrate something."  It took courage to do it, beginning with society's expectation that the man make the first move and face rebuffing. 

"Someone," she countered softly.

"Someone," he accepted her correction, continuing on as if she hadn't interrupted.  "I'm a man.  We're built for it.  Form follows function."  She nodded at his assessment, unsure where he was leading.  He knew he should probably have stopped talking to her hours ago, and yet he couldn't compel himself to leave, or to stem the flow of words from his mouth.  "I suppose I want to know what the other side of the coin is like."

He wanted to know what it was like to be a woman?  Her surprise must have shown on her face.  It made him uneasy but he was focused now and found that once he'd started, he just couldn't stop.  Libby didn't laugh; instead she leaned in earnestly, encouraging him to go on.  She wanted to know what was in his head.  She wanted to know him. 

"I don't want to be a woman, or--God forbid--be treated like one.  Just to understand finding pleasure in being.... invaded."  It was wholly foreign to him, but he couldn't get away from the idea that if he could just unlock this one secret, it might shed enough light on his current perspective to change some things in his life for the better.  Once he'd even told a director he'd take a woman's part if given the opportunity.  His search to understand them had been long and fruitless--and equally enjoyable and devastating at times.  But how could he understand something dictated and driven by anatomy when he didn't have the requisite parts?

Delving into understand other people was his passion.  He'd made a career of it.  Building and understanding a character was a complex thing.  He made up histories for them, studied what made them tick, invested hours familiarizing himself with the accoutrements of their lives.  When he delved into a character, no detail was too small to be overlooked.  He might not have acted on his deductions, but he often thought about how a given character would be with a woman, and how a woman would be with that character in return; how it would be different than how he would treat them and how they responded to him.  Sometimes in his more maudlin moments, he wondered if perhaps those archetype heroic characters he favored could prevail with a woman where he, a mere mortal, floundered and failed.

His mouth was dry now that he'd stopped talking.  He knew he hadn't imparted exactly what he was after.  It was all tangled up in his mind along with fragments from his past, failed relationships and his burning need to always be in control.  Like most men, he was obsessed with ownership and it was tied up with the ability to take something.  Maybe there was another way of defining it that women understood?  Intellectually he knew to give freely of yourself could be the greater power, but it was something he found erotically challenging.  Maybe it wasn't so much the act of invasion as it was his inability to feel comfortable in a passive role.  He was much more comfortable giving love than receiving it, physically and otherwise.  He liked to drive the bus.  He wished it was as simple as that, though he knew in his heart it probably wasn't.  And no amount of drugs would get him to admit that to Libby, stranger or not.  He'd already revealed far, far too much. 

Libby rose up on her knees to look him in the eye.  There was no trace of mirth or teasing in his gaze.  Her hand rested lightly on his knee.  Neither of them really noticed.  She wet her lips absently and his eyes followed, drawn to her lush mouth.   It turned up in a smile.  There was an uncomfortable congestion of heat and pressure in his groin.  Her nipples were pebbled tightly under her blouse.  The air between them crackled and their bodies hummed with unassuaged heat.  He wanted her mouth.  For starters. 

Her smile widened.  He wanted to understand being invaded?  "I think I can help you with that."

And before he could even make sense of her words, she leaned in and kissed him full on the mouth, softly at first and then as the heat roared through him and he melted into her, she slipped her tongue into his mouth.  He groaned into hers, shuddering with pleasure at the kiss though he didn't follow her mouth with his when she withdrew.  Self preservation, maybe?  He could still tell himself that he hadn't broken any of his rules.  She had kissed him.  He might have enjoyed it but he hadn't returned it. 

Much.

He touched his mouth with his fingertips.  Behind his lips, the sweet taste of her still lingered on his tongue. 

Her head was swimming.  Just that small taste of him was intoxicating.  She felt alive and aroused in a way she hadn't been in years.  "You see, it's not really all that foreign."  Their eyes locked.  "I put myself inside you.  You wanted the invasion.  Even enjoyed it."

He felt his face heat, unused to such a direct evaluation of his passionate response.  Her words had merit, however.  He'd never thought to look at it that way, even though he was disturbed by her kiss on a number of levels.

Libby touched his cheek softly.  "We're not so different.  Maybe you just need to stop looking for the differences and start looking for the similarities instead."

Her answer, regardless the directness of its delivery, made him appreciate her sense of self, even as a whore.  And later, when he was sober and could meditate on her words, it would help sew up his determination to make it this time and not be the one to let the woman of his dreams down once again.  This time he would give himself to her freely and not try to win her or take her.

But at the moment, he was only on the cusp of that realization.  He was still deep in the well of wine-soaked desire and he had the sense that this ill-fated journey of self discovery was far from over.  He could feel himself slipping, sliding further down that familiar slippery slope.  He had a weakness for excess and it wouldn't be the first time that a bottle and a pretty woman had been rope he'd used to hang himself.  He needed some distance if there was any chance of saving himself--and yet he couldn't deny himself the pleasure of her. 

"Dance for me."  There was no awkwardness in the steely order, only a low sultry growl.  He'd have his space--and as much of her as he dared.  He wasn't really breaking the rules, just rearranging a few of the parameters.  There was no dishonor in that. 

Libby rose gracefully and began to sway before him, unsure--and uncaring--if it was the creator or the creation who had issued the order.  Now more than any other moment, he seemed very much a blend of the two.  After all; he had created each character from his own personal aether.  They were all a part of him.

There was fire in his eyes as he watched her.  She felt the heat as his gaze touched her, lingering on her throat, the lissome undulation of her wrist, the rise and fall of her breasts, the slow sensuous roll of her hips, the high arch of her foot as she moved for his pleasure in that open place between his legs.  She gave herself up to it, swaying to the beat throbbing between her legs, each movement telling a story, a body making love as it moved through space on an axis of pleasure.  And never once did she take her eyes off him.  She could not deny herself that pleasure. 

He didn't tell her how to move or what to touch.  He wouldn't.  But then again, he didn't have to.  Reading men in their pleasure was her gift.  Her hands lingered where they made him swallow and shift in the chair.  They caressed where his eyes rested.  A thigh.  A pubis.  A nipple.  Inside her, the Burmese bells jangled softly from time to time with the subtle roll of her hips.  That sound was muted, yet audible.  Clamping down on the two small balls inside her only heightened the already unbearable pleasure.

It wasn't a crude striptease.  It was a dance, a seduction, a way to whet a lover's appetite... and it was all the more erotic for what it left untold.  What man didn't love discovering a woman's hidden secrets?  Years of yoga had left her limber and lithe.  As she bent and rolled, her loose top billowed, giving him glimpses of her naked honeyed skin.  A breast with a high pink nipple.  The flat toned plane of her belly.  The delicate curve of the small of her back.  Her skirt flowed, rippling as she writhed.  She was bare underneath. 

He was sweating.  Transfixed.  Another few moments of this erotic torture and he was going to come out of his skin.  He even imagined he was hearing bells!  Even in his altered state, surely he wasn't that far gone?  He knew he had to end it now before he slipped over the knife's edge he was walking. 

"Stop!"

Libby froze a heartbeat away from him.  A muscle worked in his jaw as he fought himself for control.  She pressed, unwilling to give away the momentary advantage she enjoyed to so skilled an opponent.  She was enjoying this high stakes game.

"You have an erection," she sighed, breathless from her exertions and the lust radiating palpably from him.

He blinked.  "It doesn't mean anything."

"No?"

"So?  I'm hard.  You're wet."  He couldn't resist goading her.  She wanted him and he knew it.  "Big deal."

She wet her dry lips with a quick dart of her clever pink tongue.  "Are you ready to tell me what you really want?"  Time to lay all the cards on the table.

Eyes glittering with mischief, he huffed with amusement.  "I thought you were the expert?  Can't you work it out?"

Her dimples deepened.  "Not if you don't know yet yourself."

"Then we could be in real trouble here...."  He giggled.  He knew what he wanted.  It just wasn't possible.  There was no way he could have an intimate physical experience with her without destroying any possibility of a future with the woman he really wanted.  "Why don't you tell me what you want instead?"

In that single moment, Libby knew she'd lost.  Or maybe she'd won?  She'd finally found someone worthy--and he was in love with someone else.  Perhaps she'd lost after all.  But for as much as her heart ached in that moment, all was not completely lost.  He still owed her for tonight and she would have some part of him for herself yet.  She would have something of him that he hadn't given to anyone else.

"Have you ever had aural sex?"  

"What, like phone sex?" he scoffed.  There was no way he was going down that road.  

"Not a fan?"

"Not particularly, no."

"You would be if you'd ever experienced it done properly."  

He snorted.  Her eyes twinkled.  She knew he was going to refuse before she'd even brought it up, but she was a master at getting what she wanted from men.  She wasn't above a little subtle manipulation, even with him.  And especially not now.  Men were so easy.  Give them the choice between the lesser of two evils, the lesser being the choice she wanted them to make, and they would happily make it, all the while believing they were in control.  All she had to do was shape his options in such a way that he chose the one she wanted.  It was almost too easy.  She didn't have to remind him that he still owed her.  He wasn't the sort of man who refused to pay his debts.

He wasn't refusing because he couldn't do it.  He could.  Probably better than her.  He just wasn't prepared to have any sort of interactive sexual experience with her.  Talking about sex was fine.  Watching her dance wasn't any different than watching someone in a club.  He hadn't told her what to do, merely observed her doing it.  Aural sex implied a back-and-forth give-and-take of conversation that he was uncomfortable with.  There was a difference in talking about sex and talking each other through a sex act.   "I spend half my life on the other side of the world from the people I love.  I could teach a fucking master class on it." 

She burst out laughing.  "Imagine the line for that one?"  They both giggled.  Their brains were buzzing and suddenly everything was funny.  "Shall I call you professor?"

He slapped her bum playfully and they both laughed again.  "Naughty girl.  Now why don't you sit down and tell me all about it?"  He steepled his fingers but ruined it by giggling.

"Okay then.  If that is out, how about a fantasy then?"  She held her breath, praying she'd played tonight perfectly so this one moment was pitched to give her the result she'd wanted all along.  What did her fantasy man think about when the lights when out at night?

"A fantasy?  Mine or yours?"  

She mimed locking her mouth and throwing away the key.  "Just yours, Professore."

He considered it carefully.  It didn't break any of the rules.  He shouldn't, and yet he knew the moment she proposed it that he would.      

"Honesty, wasn't it?  The coin of the evening," he clarified when she searched his face.

She nodded.

"Well, never let it be said that I don't pay my debts--with interest."