Spring

My heat rose as I listened to the sound that our bodies made, the slap of damp skin on leather, the low humming growl she made in her throat, the scraping of my fingernails clutching the furniture.

To Moana Irving, the rediscovery of the Ball seems impossible. Lonely and lost, working in the wings of an English theater, she obsessively recounts the heat and sensuality of the memorable event—a nigh...