Hot In Here. Susan Lyons

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СКАЧАТЬ was still applauding when the lights went off and the woman on stage was gone. Gradually the noise died down but the place was buzzing, even more energized than before.

      “A tough act to follow,” Suze commented.

      “Yeah. Pity the next guy,” Jenny said.

      The stage remained dark.

      “He chickened out,” Rina said.

      Music started up, but it wasn’t the kind they’d been listening to all evening, with a pounding, fast-driving beat. Instead it was a single instrument, its voice somehow combining husky and pure. Was that a—

      “Saxophone.” Rina didn’t have to yell, the room had gone so quiet even her whisper carried. “Also known as sultry, sensual, seductive.” A musician herself, she knew all about instruments.

      “Sexy,” Suzanne sighed on a slow breath of air.

      “You can say that again,” Jenny agreed as the music threaded through the still air. Familiar, but she couldn’t place it.

      “Summertime,” Rina said. “Gershwin. And a beautiful rendition. I think it might—”

      She broke off as, after the first couple of bars, a light came on. Rather than the floodlights used in the previous acts, this was one blue spotlight, and the stage was…smoking. Wisps of smoke twined through the air, the same way the music did.

      “Dry ice?” Ann murmured. “Effective.”

      Into the smoky blue spot walked a man clad in turnout gear. No hose, no axe, no props at all. He stood quietly, lifting his head as if the music were seeping through him. Then, with minimal movements, he removed his helmet, turnout coat, boots and then finally his pants.

      The audience sighed and murmured.

      No in-your-face undies on this guy, but his costume was even more appealing for being subtle.

      He wore slim-fitting tuxedo pants, a black tux vest and a black bow tie. No shirt, just tanned arms with exactly the right amount of musculature.

      “Take a picture!” Ann ordered.

      Damn, Jenny’d been so caught up in watching, she hadn’t taken a single shot. Hurriedly she lifted her camera and took a few full-body shots, then zoomed in on his face. Strong planes, vivid blue eyes, light brown hair with blond streaks that caught the light. Serious, not smiling or flirting with the audience as the others had done.

      In fact, it was almost as if he were unaware of the audience. As if he were alone, listening to that sultry music as wisps of smoke curled up around him.

      The saxophone climbed high, intense, and the man’s head moved a little. Then his upper body, in time with the music. Then, finally, he stepped forward and began to dance.

      To tap dance.

      She’d never seen anything like it. His shoes were tap shoes, but this was no slick Gene Kelly, An American in Paris–type of tap, nor was it the Celtic Riverdance style. It was slow, almost shuffly, bluesy. And very, very sexy.

      She squeezed her thighs together. Way sexier than the silver-haired guy.

      The man on stage would take a scuffing step, hip thrusting forward and out, then do a kind of muffled drumroll of taps, heel to toe. His posture was perfect, but graceful and fluid rather than stiff, and his arms moved sensually in opposition to his legs. He made Jenny think of a tango dancer with an imaginary partner.

      Tap, tango, blues…whatever you called it, this was the sexiest dance ever invented.

      “Is it hot in here?” she gasped, torn between staring, mesmerized, and taking pictures. Awesome pictures, what with the smoke, the blue light and the man.

      “That’s amazing.” Rina sighed. “Don’t you just want to take him home?”

      Take him home for her own private dancer. Oh, yeah. No question about it.

      Well, okay, not home, where she lived with her old-school family. But somewhere, anywhere where she could be alone with him and jump those beautiful bones.

      A minute or two into the number, he slipped off the tux vest and tossed it casually on the pile of firefighter clothes.

      There was only one word for his torso. No, two. Holy shit!

      It was perfect. Firm pecs, a drift of damp hair plastered to his body, arrowing down a lean abdomen. Her fingers itched to touch him.

      The tux pants shifted and, growing damp with sweat, clung as he moved. Jenny zoomed in with her camera. Wow. He was getting turned on, too.

      Had she said beautiful bones? Try beautiful boner!

      It wasn’t just her fingers itching now.

      She licked her lips. “Nothing dysfunctional about that guy’s package,” she told her friends.

      She zoomed up to his face. His expression was intense, focused. Focused on the saxophone or on his own arousal? Definitely not on the audience. It was as if he didn’t see the hundreds of people whose attention he’d captured so completely. The crowd was silent now, but for an occasional whisper, the rustle of clothing, the clink of ice cubes.

      It was as if none of them mattered to him.

      Somehow this man’s bearing, his distance from his audience, was far more arousing than the in-your-face lewdness of the other guys who’d performed.

      Arousing.

      Her black silk thong was soaked and her pussy was throbbing with need.

      “Mr. February,” she announced to her friends. No question, the bluesy tap dancer, the smoky saxophone guy, would win the most coveted slot.

      “There’s still six more to go,” Suzanne murmured.

      “Not relevant.” Didn’t Suze get it? No one could top this man.

      The music ended and the blue spotlight shut off, making the audience gasp. The dancer was gone.

      But then the spot came back on and he was standing quietly, hands clasped in front of him. Hiding his erection? For the first time he made eye contact with the audience, and they were yelling the roof off. He smiled—kinda cocky. Kinda…relieved? Definitely sexy.

      Damn, he was hot.

      She was trapped inside a body that was burning up with lust, and she knew just the firefighter who could rescue her.

      Yeah, she wanted this guy. She wanted those hot, sweaty muscles, she wanted that supremely functional dick. She wanted him to concentrate as intensely on her as he had on the music, to be even more turned on, to move inside her the way he’d moved to that saxophone.

      The thought of him inside her made her squirm with need.

      This was so unlike her. Sure, she’d hooked up with her fair share of guys—and there was nothing shy about her when it came to sex!—but she’d never felt like flinging herself on top of a total stranger.

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