Triple X has been transformed into a wicked winter wonderland. I stand beside my guide into this unusual territory, our fingers linked. When had that happened? An ice-blue silk robe wraps around my nude form, more to limit distractions than to protect my vacant sense of modesty. “Who knew Santa’s Workshop could party like that?” I tilt my head to puzzle out what’s what in the tangle of limbs on top of a toy workbench. “No shit.” “Are you nervous, Rick?” His palm is sweating in my grasp. “Terrified.” He angles his body toward me until we’re standing face-to-face. “I’ve never seen this kind of crowd. I’m positive we’re violating the fire marshal’s limit. Tommy told me this morning a flood of calls hit the ticket booth asking for admission at any cost after our performance last night.” The knowledge warms me. I would pay an awful lot to be there again, in his arms, exploring our raw passion. “Don’t be nervous. Ignore them. All that matters is what we share.
