They went to see a Flamenca dancer. She stood tall, stomping her feet and curling her fingers and wrists as another woman clapped in beat with the guitar. The stomping and clapping gave the music a defiant, astute quality and Bakura sat tranced, dark eyes trained on each flourish of slender fingers and strike of heal on stage.
Marik leaned over and whispered into Bakura's ear. "I've never seen you stare so intently at a woman before."
"Shhh."
"What? No sardonic, witty retort to that?"
"Shhh."
"You. Speechless. This is amazing."
"Marik."
Marik snickered low in his throat.
Bakura blew out an exasperated sigh, turning to catch Marik out of the corner of his eye. "Fine, here's the deal. Let me watch this without your commentary, and I will treat you like a god tonight in the bedroom."
Marik bit his lip at Bakura's offer, but wasn't yet satisfied. "How so?"
"Foot rub, rim job, then I'll ride you, but you have to stop talking right now or the offer's off."
Marik felt his jaw drop a touch at Bakura's words. He always enjoyed when Bakura climbed on top of him and did all the work as he watched. It often reminded Marik of a thousand white ribbons caught in a storm, and was his favorite way to be made love to . . .
Marik's mind froze a moment at the word choice of his thoughts. When he thought of Bakura he thought of fucking, screwing, banging, and having sex – the concept of 'making love' never once entered their vocabulary or even Marik's thoughts until that moment. He tried to think of how long they'd been fooling around together. Two years? Three? Almost three.
Maybe he'd give Bakura a foot rub first.