© Clare London / 2010

The music was low and it stole through every part of him, it flowed, bubbling like warm blood. How the hell did it do that? The guitar chords were bold and the playing fierce – how could such raw, noisy energy produce such smooth, saturating sensuality?

There were drops of sweat in the hollow of his throat, he could feel them as he swallowed, teasing him. Another rivulet dribbled down his back between his shoulder blades, pausing and changing course with every flex of his muscles. His feet were moving with the rhythm – they had no choice. They ached to follow it; his hips dipped and twisted with each beat. His vision was misted and his mouth dry with the concentration.

He licked his lips.

An exhalation of breath skimmed his ear, hot, hissing. “You’re damned good. Did I tell you that?”

Antony smiled. It was a very slight smile, for his attention was following the throb of the guitars: the patterned passion of the music. There were fingers laced through his own: they tightened, suddenly. Both palms were slippery with sweat but he held his partner close.

The voice drew breath again. “The lessons were worth every cent, though they beggared me, you know that? Such an unusual request for a gift… but such a pleasure to give…”

Antony nodded, waiting, listening to the soft panting from the body that pressed against his own.

“You move like my dreams,” Kez whispered. The music gentled then swelled again. His hand pushed forward quickly, then back, drawing Antony along with him. “Quick, quick, slow,” came another whisper. It was slightly breathless. “Yeah. Just like my dreams…”

Antony stepped quickly and confidently, his knee nudging between the other man’s legs. He rocked forward, then back. Maybe his step was short, but the effect was to tug the other body in more closely against his. They both smelled of sweat and excitement. There was a soft chuckle. Antony shook his head gently, loosening a thread of hair that clung to the corner of his eye.

“This is better,” he murmured.

“Better?” Kez rocked, too, they moved together as if bound; as if nudged by the same wave of heat and sound; as if sketching out the same movement in the humid air, a four-limbed animal, surrendering to an instinctive, feral response. Antony turned on the balls of his feet and dipped: Kez gasped, his back arching in return.

“Better than the dance studio,” hissed Antony. His head was close to Kez’s, his pupils reflected in the glint of Kez’s wide, blue eyes. “Dancing is better here in the bedroom.”

Kez’s face creased briefly in a smile. Antony straightened up, a graceful, athletic movement, and Kez’s body swung up with it, their torsos inches apart. The music was loud and harsh, and their breathing matched it. It moved to its crescendo: it broke like a storm cloud and rained its final, softer chords into the room. Kez felt the tension relax inside his gut, his limbs loosening in Antony’s grip. It became background noise; it no longer demanded their attention and their exercise.

Antony paused then, his hand slipping over Kez’s wrist, down to his elbow, then up again to his shoulder. His fingers left a trail of sweat, a glistening path along Kez’s straining bicep. His hand slid around behind Kez’s neck, burrowing in under the heavy, damp hair. He pulled Kez’s head closer.

“Yes,” whispered Kez.

Antony raised an eyebrow.

“You’ll ask,” murmured Kez, panting. “I know you will. And I’ll say yes. Do it now…” His hand stroked at Antony’s bare torso, the thumb lingering on the nipple, flipping it to erection. The muscles in Antony’s belly tightened. Kez smiled, absorbing the smell of his lover’s skin; the sound of his gasp; the sight of his dilated pupils. “Do me now.”

Antony smiled, too. His step was no longer in rhythm with the music, but with the beat of his heart. “This is better, too.”

Kez tilted his head, questioningly.

“Nude,” Antony murmured into Kez’s skin, his teeth nipping at Kez’s neck; his lips ghosting over his jaw. “Dancing in the nude.”