Page 67 of Tell Me Lies: Manlove Edition

My heart skips a beat. He’s so special, how can I possibly deserve him? And what if his interest in me fades after he learns to know the new me, the burnt me, a different person from the young rock star wannabe he crushed on twenty years ago?

“Don’t worry so much,” he whispers, reaching up to caress my cheek. “We’re going to be all right. Take a day at a time.”

“Yeah.” I let out a nervous chuckle.

He leans forward and kisses me, lips soft and oh-so-gentle. His fragrance of musk and cologne fills my space. Before I can respond to the kiss, a ding from my phone says I’ve received a text. I want to ignore the interruption, but Robin says, “It’s okay, answer it.”

“Pfft. It can only be Mira-Me.” I pull the phone out of my pocket and thumb it open. Sure enough, she’s sent me a selfie of her cheek-to-cheek with the charming Antonio Banderas lookalike and the words, Don’t wait for me. I show it to Robin with a laugh.

“He-he, I guess this means we have the night to ourselves. But first, can I show you something?” He gestures for me to hand him the phone, taps the YouTube app open, and types “Robin and Lola” in the search section.

A long list of videos appears on the screen. He picks one where the two harlequins are bathed in purple light against a black backdrop. It must be filmed during one of their acrobatic shows, where they do a great number of acts you’d never imagine were humanly possible, he lying on his back and she using his extended arms and legs in the air for support to do extreme contortionist splits and dances. “What we do there is called an adagio.”

“Wow.” I gape. I am baffled by the way their movements are clocked and synchronized to perfection like machinery, having probably been rehearsed a thousand times, and how the duo relies on each other’s physical abilities and balance. The video continues, now Lola lifting Robin the same way he did, and he standing upside down using solely her up-reached hands for support. I blink, this is so crazy. “That girl’s strength is insane!”

“I told you she could carry my weight.”

“And your balance is just...” I can’t find the right word to express my admiration.

He laughs and returns the phone. “Now, let me show you where we had planned to do this.”

He goes to the side of the theater, unlocks a steel door, and slips inside. I follow him into what looks like a small hall, the door clicking shut behind me. He fumbles in the dark before finding a switch. Light floods our constricted space, blinding us. “This way.” The hall ends with a heavy red curtain. He pushes it aside. “Ta-daa!”

His voice echoes in a vast, round room towered by a domed ceiling. The lights are off, but moonlight pierces through a window revealing row after row of red-cushioned seats, balconies, and in front, a wooden stage. I recognize the smell from our hotel in Aranda de Duero—century-old lacquer and musty carpets, and maybe also a hint of candlelight. There is an oppressive quiet in here, as if ghosts from the past are watching us from the shadows.

Before I can say anything, Robin takes his shirt off, folds it over a seat, and removes his shoes—then hops up on the stage. What is he up to?

Eyes closed, he lifts a leg and spins around on the tip of his toe. Once, twice, in a slow then quickened rhythm as if following the leads of some classical music in his head. The low light filtering from the ceiling puts on display every single muscle of his torso and floating arms as he dances across the stage, swirling, jumping, gliding with utter grace.

“What are you doing?” I whisper, in awe. “A show? For me?”

I lean against a low, wooden fence separating the stage from the audience seats and hold my breath, his dance is so beautiful. I understand, now, that performance is his world, his life. The wooden stage floor creaks under his weight, but he seems so at home in this magical universe of the theater, like a crucial keystone the old building needs to feel alive, too. Where will I fit in?

Slowly, he melts down to the floor and lies there for a moment, arms spread, chest heaving for air and pelvis lifting in tune with a melody only he can hear. In profile, his body is a masterpiece of sculpted forms and proportions. Whoever created man must have had sex on his mind, for this man’s gorgeousness sends me spiraling into a haze of lust and need. My body tenses, straining against my clothes as if they’ve become too small.

Seems as though Robin is feeling the same thing, for he arches his back like a bow, unbuttons his pants, pushes them down his legs, and kicks them off one foot after the other, giving me ample time to view the outline of his cock in his briefs. He must be aroused, how else can it be so long and thick? Surely, the low light isn’t playing tricks on me. As if he’s heard my thoughts, he turns to me with a dazzling grin and runs a hand over his erection.

Fuck, he’s bad. Fierce arousal slams into me, my cock growing rock hard and tenting my jeans. I return the grin and tell him with my eyes, Go on!

He nods a silent, Okay, and gets up with the fluency and ease of an acrobat. Then goes to the side of the stage, grabs a rope hanging from the ceiling, and pulls it toward the center. The rope must be about twenty-five feet high, but he crosses his legs around it and climbs fast as an ape before stopping mid-height and suddenly spreading his arms, letting himself fall backward.

No! I gasp and plunge forward to catch him, colliding with the raised platform of the stage. But he’s okay, his legs are locked around the rope, and he swirls round and round, head upside down, looking like an angel whose wings have given up a flight.

My heart hammers in my chest as I lean against the stage and suck in a deep breath. And calm enough to reckon he’s got the most impressive human body I’ve seen, natural muscles bulging and not an ounce of fat. In addition to an innate sense of coordination, weight, space, and balance. Stupendous. Oh, yeah, and that hard rod in his briefs is still very visible, its veined profile enhanced by the moonlight, a supplement of maleness that has me salivate and lick my lips.

As quickly as I jumped to his rescue, I’m back into sex mode. My stiff cock presses against the wooden platform, the pulse in its veins pounding. I squeeze it to ease the pressure then rearrange it in my pants.

He straightens, glides down the rope, and at the bottom forms a limbless human ball rolling on the floor a couple times until he reaches the edge of the stage. Stopping inches from me, he spreads his long limbs again in a seductive position, dark gaze fixed on me, muscles trembling, his broad chest going up and down with each breath. Heat oozes from him. A thin coat of sweat covers his skin, which glows a dark bronze in the low light. Irresistible.

My turn to play. The show’s over, and the performer must be thanked accordingly.

I grab his chin and pull him to me a little rough-handedly before covering his mouth with mine in a hard kiss then diving in, roaming, exploring. His gasps for air only urge me on. I curl my tongue around his in a teasing dance and lick the wet inside of his mouth, his tongue again, his teeth. Everything is mine. He breathes heavily through his nose, moaning in my mouth.

I release his swollen lips to give him some air. “Don’t let anyone else kiss you like that,” I warn, my voice hoarse and deep in my throat.

Cheeks flushed, he pants as he lifts his pelvis and reaches for the waistband of his tented briefs.

I put a hand over his and order, “Let me.”

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