Page 193 of The Dommes

“How about it, Ms. Allen?” Ira extends an open hand to me. “Dance? The good news is that the song is probably half over by now. Though it’s hard to tell with orchestras. Ever heard a five-minute cello solo?”

“Yes.” I take her hand. It’s warm. A reminder of what she can do to me with that hand. “There was one during that night at the symphony, remember?”

Ira leads me away, my hand still in hers. “No. I was distracted by other things.”

Yes, like my mouth on you. You know what I remember the most from that night, Ira?

Surrendering myself to you for the first time. The first time without screaming, anyway.

Her lips touch my knuckles when we reach the center of the ballroom. Couples are spinning, dipping, and laughing all around us. Under any other circumstance, this would be a whimsical time.

Naturally, she leads. Because she’s masculine. I must defer to her lead.

It’s a petty thing to cling to. I’ve been feeling pretty petty lately.

“We haven’t had much chance to talk since you’ve been back.” Ira keeps a respectful distance between us as we turn on the dance floor. “Tell me all about Europe.”

My hand squeezes in hers, and I blame it on the movements of the dance as opposed to her forwardness. Or is it me initiating this contact? Sometimes I have no idea what I’m doing.

“Europe was fine. Rainy in London, but when isn’t it?”

“London? I thought you went to Germany to see your mother.”

“I did, for as long as I could bear it.” I briefly tell her about my mother waking up “hating everything” and throwing her bedspread from her second-floor balcony and onto the street.

“Yikes.”

“Yes, that was the day I decided to fly to Stockholm.”

“Private?”

“Commercial.”

“Yikes, again.”

I shrug. As long as I fly First Class, commercial airlines don’t bother me all that much. I only spring for private when I’m taking people with me. Since this was a solo trip, even without Annie, I opted for some headphones and my tablet to keep me preoccupied as I went from Berlin to Stockholm and then Stockholm to London.

“What was in Sweden? Ah, let me guess.” Her hand detaches from my shoulder and brushes against my hair. “Family?”

“You’re assuming that because I’m pale and blond I’m Scandinavian.”

“Would I be wrong?”

“Not too far off.” We are, in fact, Swedish on my paternal grandmother’s side. That’s why I first had an interest in Sweden, but not why I went this time. When I was in college I studied abroad for a semester and wanted to see the old sights again. Talk to some friends. See what was going on in that part of the world. “You know what they say about assumptions, Mathison.”

“Oh?”

“Yes. They make an ass out of you.”

“I’m not sure that’s quite how it goes.”

My foot doesn’t turn fast enough, my heel catching and threatening to take me down. Ira clenches me closer, hand pressing against the small of my back. My chest is pressed against hers. Some people are staring.

“I missed you,” she whispers in my ear.

Jolts of electricity explode within me, reaching my extremities, filling my loins with desire. You think I don’t remember what it’s like to have her in my grasp, breathing hard, resisting the urge to kiss me? I don’t doubt that she’s sincere. I bet she did miss me, like I missed her.

We love each other, after all.

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