Free The Last Hour by Charles Sheehan-Miles Page B

sort of a love story. Set in Ireland, it’s about a street musician, and a Czech immigrant who fall in love.”
    His eyebrows lowered, and he glanced down at the program. This was the point where he’d make a big deal about how attending the show with me, instead of going to a basketball game or a bar or having sex, was a big favor. It never failed. I guess it might be different if I was still in New York, men who will admit to enjoying Broadway shows aren’t as rare there. In Texas, they were a rare bird you only caught a glimpse of before they winged away.
    He flipped the program over, his eyebrows pushing together, and said, “Wait. Wasn’t this a movie? Sort of an Indie flick. I remember the music was awesome. I saw it before I joined the Army.”
    I swallowed. “You’ve seen the movie?”
    “Well, yeah, I loved it.”
    I felt a stupid smile on my face, but I didn’t want to give away the store, so I kept my answer light. “We’re going to get along just fine.”  
    He raised an eyebrow and looked me in the eye. “I could have told you that.”
    And then he leaned close and said, “Let me prove it.” The next thing I knew, our lips were touching again, his pressing against mine, firm, not aggressive or pushy, but he clearly knew exactly what he wanted. I closed my eyes, drinking in the sensation, feeling his stubble, the very faint smell of sweat, the overwhelming feeling of his hands on my upper arms.  
    Then the lights went down, and the voices in the theater dropped. We broke off, slowly, tentatively, and turned our attention to the show.
    I was immediately swept up in it. It was a wonderful show, with none of the pyrotechnics, over the top choreography or catchy pop tunes that seemed to be inbred in most Broadway shows I’ve seen. Instead, this was understated, engaging, gentle storytelling. No wonder it won so many awards.  
    Five minutes into the show I grabbed Ray’s hand, and I didn’t let go until the intermission. I never got so lost in the show that I didn’t feel him in the seat next to me. I was acutely conscious of the fact that every once in a while he glanced away from the stage, in my direction. When he did, my breath would catch. I didn’t understand why he affected me this way. I was lightheaded, almost drunk with sensation.  
    When the intermission came, he turned toward me and said, “Come here.”
    “What?” I said, but I could feel my smile widening, impossibly wide.
    Apparently he didn’t have the patience to explain, because he reached out, putting his hands on my waist, and lifted me right into his lap. I’m not a small woman. Yes, I’m thin. But I’m also six-two and have no problems hiking twenty miles up a mountainside. But he picked me up like I was a little girl. I let out a squeal and threw my arms around his neck, and then everything in my world narrowed down to that touch, the breath between us, and the urgent pressure between our lips. He had one hand fixed on my waist, the other in my hair, and my arms were thrown over his shoulders. I felt goose bumps on my arms, my whole body alive.  
    It was overpowering. Overwhelming. I was twenty-seven years old. I’d been with men before. I’d dated, at least twice seriously. But I’d never experienced anything like this. Right at that moment, it was as if every wall I had, every boundary, every defense, had simply stepped to the side, opening the gates to who knew what. If we hadn’t been in the theater I might have torn his clothes off right then and there. As it was, I was grateful, for once, for the semi-private box I’d resented in the past.  
    He broke off and spoke, his voice low, husky. “Is this going too fast for you?”
    I met his eyes. “It’s not going fast enough.”
    Ray’s eyes widened. “I’m liking that. You know I haven’t been with a girl in ... two years? At least.”
    I leaned forward and bit his ear, then said, “I haven’t been with a girl in two years either.”
    “Oh my God,