Kissing The Enemy: A Russian Mafia/Italian Mafia Romance

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Jesus, I needed to do bad things to this girl.

She bounded across the stage and was gone.

Immediately, the other dancers were forgotten: all I

cared about was seeing her again. I was leaning so far

forward in my seat, it creaked. The guy in front of me

twisted around in irritation, but I just gave him a glare

and he paled and faced front.

Then she reappeared, lifting herself right up onto the

points of her toes and stepping so lightly across the

stage that she could have danced on a soap bubble.

How did she do that? Didn’t it hurt?! I was noticing

detail after detail, now, and every one of them was

sweet fucking perfection: the soft skin of her neck,

revealed by her pinned-up hair, ripe for kissing. The firm

curves of her ass, when that gauzy skirt floated up,

athletic and yet feminine. Her long, supple legs, one

moment stretching out into the splits, the next

scissoring together and propelling her skyward: I