He loved the way she moved.

And not just in the strip tease sense, either -- while there
was good reason for wanting to be the sole audience for such
a show, fevered meditations on the teasing, sexual gyrations
of an old-fashioned strip tease weren't all that kept him going
late at night. There was more to it than that. Luke Spencer
wasn't quite so straightforward in his desires, and whether
another man would consider that a blessing or a curse was
of no concern to him. All Luke knew was that the treasures
of his desire were as multi-faceted and numerous as the cuts
on a rare and precious diamond, and he reveled in the joy of
them.

Like his joy in the way she moved. Effortless, really; that
was his favorite term for it. The way she flitted from one
corner of the room to another like a butterfly on speed when
she was excited; the way she threw her arms in the air when
she was exasperated or folded her arms across her chest when
she was scolding; the way she jumped when she was scared
or leaned into his embrace when she sought comfort. Effortlessly
done with an utter lack of artifice or self-awareness; the target
of his wanting did not pose or posture, she simply...*was.*

Yes, there was joy to be had there, if you knew how to savor it.
And Luke was a gourmet, make no mistake. There were many
flavors of Felicia, and he intended to sample them all.

Sometimes, it seemed to him that she knew what he was thinking.
That she saw past the carefully cultivated Joe Cool exterior to the
hunger lying in wait, to the yearning that bubbled up inside of him.
She didn't quite flinch at those moments, but her regard would
suddenly grasp on something else, and her body language would
adjust itself -- imperceptibly, perhaps, to those who didn't know her,
but Luke caught every nuance, every slight adaptation of Felicia's
body to the danger of temptation.

At those moments, he took small satisfaction in knowing that she
felt a need to defend herself against both him and her own feelings,
unconsciously or not. At least then he knew he wasn't the only one
wrestling with the demon, dancing along the edge of the abyss. No,
in this, as in so many other things, they were united.

It cheered and depressed him all at once.

The real addiction, of course, was in wondering when the
music would stop, in anticipating when and how the dance
of desire would come to an end. He clung to the myriad
vagaries of an uncertain future like a junkie to heroin,
torturing himself with limitless potentialities, mapping out
each journey that held the possibility of limbs intertwined,
of bodies joined as one. If he said this, or did that, or what
if *this* were to happen...the threads of their future beckoned
to him in glistening strands, begging to be played with and
rearranged in countless patterns of tantalizing temptation.

All he had to do was take those strands, those stretches of
infinite possibility, and move them to assure his desired end.
Not until the time was right; not until he felt sure the augurs
of fate were on his side -- but he would move them.

And when he did, it would be effortless.

end.