The smells were what she noticed first; rich, sweet, and heady – the warm scents she acquainted with apothecaries, with long nights of love making, with the gypsy caravans that roved through the streets. The room was entirely too warm, she decided. Perhaps the amount of people within the small confines of the tent had something to do with it. The music was loud, bells and chimes and all manner of drums drove her fuzzy brain into a confused frenzy. Around her, all manner of scantily clad bodies hummed and danced to the beat. Whether the heat or their own impassioned blood caused the sweat slick on their skin, it was anyone's guess.
She sat at the head of the makeshift table, a rough surface of pine boards held aloft from the ground by cinder blocks. The cushion she sank into was handmade, silk and corded tassels of every color standing out against her pale white veils. Kind of her, they decided, to honor their own traditions, their own customs. Her face was respectfully covered by a thin silk scarf, as pale as her robes. Only her wide blue eyes showed, betraying her curiosity at their obvious affections.
Those aquamarine orbs closed, the burning incense infusing her with muddled passion. When they opened again, they lighted on a single young man. He wore a simple linen vest; the purple made for a splendid comparison to his damp, dark skin, a sensuous golden sheen in the dim fire light. The loose-fitted cotton pants he wore were purple as well, but he was barefooted, the sand spinning around his ankles as he danced. The chains around his waist were made of flattened golden coins which seemed no richer than his skin. Finally her eyes drank in his face; what a glorious face, all proud cheek bones, dark, kohl-lined black eyes, made darker still by the long, luxurious lashes that even half way across the room she could make out. He danced alone; chin length brown hair damp with sweat as the smoke from the incense drifted around him in a sort of spell-cast way.
The lady's eyes danced with him, followed his hips as they sang with tiny chimes in time to the beat of the gypsy tambourines. He smiled arrogantly at her, correctly noting the arousal in her fae eyes. A combination of scents, and sounds...the sweat of lovers entwined in the erotic dance of the gypsy angels, the beat of the drum matching the beat of her heart as it sped, thundering against her breast bone as her pulse raced. Slowly he made his way towards her, the throng of dancers in their brilliant colors parting so easily for him.
"Iubire..." He whispered in her ear, kneeling beside her for what seemed like an eternity, each moment counted by a beat of her heart. She didn't recognize the word; it was true, her Romanian was horrible, and this boy couldn't possibly speak her language. It was something in how he said it, however, that caused the aching heat in her sex, that set her pale eyes flashing somewhat darker. She shuddered in the piercing heat of the smoke and flames, sliding her delicate palm into his. She enjoyed the contrast of their skins, the pale white of her own against the dark bronze of his. He helped her to her feet. Consciously, she abandoned satin slippers to walk with him, barefooted, into the sand.
She couldn't be expected to know their dances; surely, these things were scandalous. Well brought-up young ladies knew nothing of pure lust and abandoned virtues, and it seemed to her that these dancers must all be entirely naked, writhing at the pleasure of their partners. Suddenly she herself felt naked, and she reveled in the sensation. His hands found her waist, his hips pressed into hers from behind as his body moved so effortlessly to the music. It was a rush, his hands touching her so innocently, yet so absolutely maddeningly.
"Iubire..." He repeated, his lips grazing her ear as he purred lustfully. She couldn't stop the quiet groan that tumbled from her parted lips. In an instant, she turned to face him. The dance that only moments ago had seemed so foreign now felt entirely natural. It was as if her body could anticipate the beat, the rhythm, his fingers here, and his kisses there. Lips so sinfully soft danced as surely as he did, across her skin in hot trails. Her eyes slid shut. As the music played on, as sure and steady as her heartbeat, it sped slowly along towards a climactic din of pure sound, as holy and as true as God Himself must surely be.
Quietly, her amorous partner whispered his secrets in a language so primal it needed no words. Opalescent eyes opened; locked on his, their needs met in a place above conscious thought, above human desire. She splayed her fingertips over his bare chest; she adored the way long muscles wrapped themselves around bones, the gentle swell of his stomach so irresistible to a growing appetite. His fingers found hers, and laced with them. Only then was she aware that many dancers were becoming far more scantily clad, that this dance was becoming a feral mating ritual. The smell of sex and lust mingled with sharper smells, musk, and mulberry, and sandalwood. She felt faint.
