Taking the Stage

Chapter Four

Anthony pushed his face into the bucket of icy water waiting in the backstage quiet. They’d repeated the opening dance twice more, neither as intoxicatingly seductive as the first. The need to shift beneath her, to roll her onto the stage and drive himself into her, maddened him until he’d abandoned the stage, satisfied with the performance, inflamed by the success.

The princess’s submission was an act, he reminded himself. All an act designed to seduce the audience, not him. The pain of shifting, jerking bone and muscle out of their customary positions and reforming from cat to man hadn’t diminished the surges of lust. Sweat coated his chest. The stage’s cool vapor tasted bitter in his mouth but failed to dilute the musky scent of her desire lingering on his flesh.

Straightening, he seized a towel to blot away the water and strode back onto the stage. Denim rasped against his skin. He hated wearing clothes so soon after a shift. They chafed, irritating the sensitized flesh. But if he strode out there naked, not even her sword-wielding bodyguard would be much of a defense against his passion.

His stride faltered. Roseâtre sat on her knees, center stage. Her hands rested on her thighs. A damp sheen of perspiration and dry ice vapor coated her pale skin, creating a sensation of glitter in the murky lights left from the performance.

She was once again dressed in the body-snugging black leotard. His cock jerked. Annoyance flared. He wanted to rip the offending color off her. He wanted to feast his human eyes on the gorgeous sensuality that so enraptured his cat.

As if aware of his presence, she lifted her head to look at him, the pale streak of white and silver glowing against the backdrop of black hair. His gaze narrowed on her chest, the swift rise and fall, before lifting to study her flushed features and the glassy shimmer in her eyes.

“Nice orgasm, princess?” The words slipped out before he could stop them. The scent of her taunted him, an evocative mixture of jungle fruits, summer sky and autumn crispness. There was no word for her ambrosia-flavored desire.

The cat surged within him, claws raking through his insides. The tiger was pleased with her reactions, pure masculine delight that he’d been able to drive her to such satisfaction. The man wanted to taste that satisfaction, to sample it and drive her screaming until she had no other thoughts.

No thought save for him.

“Best I’ve ever had. Jealous?” The tart response increased the sweet flavor of her scent.

Hell yes, I’m jealous of my cat. But he kept that ironic confession to himself, stalking forward on silent feet. She rose in a single fluid motion, wariness etched under her flushed pleasure.

“You need to work on your timing.” He prowled around her, not quite trusting himself to approach her directly. He had to grip his hands into fists to keep from trailing fingers over the silky hair, to lean in close and sample the musky flavor of her scent, or better, to glide his tongue along the trails of moisture dripping down the V of her leotard.

Is it salty? Or is it sweet?

“I think my timing is excellent. Your cat is impatient and doesn’t wait the full eight count before he surges against me. He nearly knocked me down the last time.” Acerbic wit strung between the words.

Does she know? He paused, mid step, to study her face. Rebellion tightened her jaw, pride squared her shoulders and force of will held her spine erect.

Want.

The purely base desire didn’t surprise him this time. He’d wanted her from the moment he’d glimpsed her arriving for that first rehearsal, laughter flowing around her like a billowing cape, captivating her audience.

The cat didn’t have a problem with her at all. He purred with anticipation of the hunt, the capture and the mating. Her fierce reactions on the stage stoked his lust.

Next time, he wanted to see her face as orgasm took her.

And the time after that.

His cock hardened painfully.

“Are you going to deal with it?” Her question thrust through the haze of desire coating his thoughts. His body was eager to do just that. Deal with the cascade of lust swirling around them.

“His timing is fine,” he managed, addressing the earlier question. “We may have to change it to a six count. It’s that hesitation you insist on. You can’t beckon and then not quite touch.”

“But isn’t that the point of the show?” Her arms folded under her sweet breasts, forcing the twin globes up until they promised to pop the fabric.

His gaze settled on them. Would they flush with heat when he caressed them? Would her nipples pucker when his beard glided over them? Despite all her earlier objections, he’d smelled the passion created by his tail sliding over her skin. She loved the feeling of his fur.

“The point of the show is the maiden submits to the tiger. She gives herself up to his pleasure. She doesn’t hold herself aloof, untouchable and she doesn’t show timidity.”

“Timidity?” Roseâtre strangled on the word, the sheen of lazy satisfaction hardening to anger.

Anthony’s lips curled upward. Gotcha, princess. “Timidity. She’s innocent. She’s untouched. She’s provocative. But she isn’t timid. She isn’t afraid of the cat.”

“The maiden is far from timid. The pause is for effect, so the audience has time to absorb her exaggerated reactions, to anticipate it. Will she reach out? Will she allow her hand to touch him? Will she risk the possible loss of life and limb to indulge a foolish fetish to stroke a cat?” Roseâtre bounced on the balls of her feet. Without her ridiculously unstable heels, she was slighter than he, barely reaching his chin. But the lack of height made her no less formidable.

“Her foolish fetish, as you call it, is the nascent innocence of a girl unjaded by worldly prejudice.” He prowled closer, forcing her to tilt her head back to gaze up at him. It was petty, using his size to his advantage.

Petty but effective.

“What prejudice could she possibly have? She’s sheltered, hidden away, secured for her own good. The tiger is the interloper, thrusting himself into her world, filling her mind with forbidden thoughts and needs.” Her voice rose on the last note, her nimble fingers punctuating each word. “The tiger is impatient, pushing and demanding.”

“He wants her.” Anthony’s voice went low. “It’s curiosity that brings him to that oasis, but what he sees, he wants.”

“Wanting and having are two different things.” Roseâtre’s ire crashed against him.

“Yes, they are.” To his delight, her pink tongue flickered over her lips, moistening them. Her face was flushed with the heat of their argument, her scent shifting subtly. His nostrils flared. Her desire was back.

“So what are you going to do about it?” The double entendre of her question wasn’t lost on him. Anthony recognized the challenge, and the beast within him rose to accept it.

“This,” he answered succinctly, snaking his arms around her, closing the gap to pull her against his body. Her soft, slender and fragile appearance belied a deeper strength, her body honed to the finest of weapons. He allowed her a single inhalation as his hands slid into that cascade of night-colored hair and his lips slanted over hers. Her teeth closed, denying him entry.

He ignored the tacit refusal, settling for the slow massage of lip upon lip, goading her with gentle flicks of his tongue. Her rigid body softened, but her hands remained at her sides. He worked his way from one corner of her mouth to the other. The loosening of her jaw relaxed him and he settled in to nuzzle.

When her hands curled up to his biceps, a throaty growl of masculine satisfaction vibrated his throat. Her teeth parted, an invitation. Anthony didn’t dare try his tongue against the wicked sharpness, continuing the slow friction of his lips on hers.

Her nails dug into his skin, scoring against the haze of desire draping him, and he firmed her body against his, thrusting a leg between hers, allowing her weight to settle against his jean-clad thigh. The fabric rasped against his skin, denying him the more satisfyingly intimate contact.

Her mouth parted fully and her tongue slid against his lips. Fire kindled in his blood, racing along to every extremity. He tormented her tongue with his own, stroking it, requesting, and then demanding admission. Her head tilted back farther, her hips rolling, rubbing herself against his thigh. He clenched the muscle, allowing her the pleasure.

The woman in his arms was no maiden. She was pure, unadulterated seductress. She enticed, she tormented and she satisfied. His cock strained against the denim, desperate for more than the teasing brush of her heat as she rode his thigh.

Her hands left his biceps, stroking across his shoulders. A glimmer of cool metal stung against the heat of her hands, but the long, sensuous caresses both riled and settled the beast inside of him. He forgot the flash of curiosity. The stage around them winked out. All that mattered was the princess sampling him, surrounding him, surrendering to him.

Anthony purred.

The soft, supple woman in his arms went stiff. Her head jerked back, forcing him to release her hair or hurt her. Her desire-drenched gaze slashed against him.

“By the gods…” The invective a low, throaty hum. “You’re the tiger.”

He smiled, the cat arching its back, proud to be acknowledged, that she knew her master.

So intoxicated by the promise of her surrender, he didn’t see the danger of her head arching back until she snapped it forward to slam into his forehead. Stars dotted his vision, pain burned through his nostrils and his grip loosened. She dropped from his thigh, hitting the stage with her hands and snapping her leg to sweep his legs out in a humiliating fall. Only his reflexes landed him on his knees, preventing the shame of being dropped on his ass.

As one, they surged to their feet. His cock protested the shift, but he had no time to acknowledge it as her next blow came for him. Anthony barely lifted an arm in time to absorb the shock of her fist. She used an old style of hand combat, one used for generations by her people and his.

The only docile Amazon is a dead one.

Laughter rolled up from his chest and he knew when he chuckled, he pushed her final button. Her expression was deadly. Pure fury burned in her gaze, her cheeks bloomed with color, and her desire fueled her rage.

She struck with precision, every blow designed to incapacitate and injure. He blocked, the cat refusing to strike back. They crossed the stage, his avenging angel in pursuit, violence bringing the doll to life.

He loved it.

When her knee slammed into his thigh, he shifted to grappling, closing the space between them lest she get the leverage required to totally emasculate him. The cat surged under his skin, keeping his grip firm, but not brutal.

His mate wouldn’t be harmed.

Mate? The cat had taken the Amazon for a mate?

The thought shocked Anthony into stillness, and he didn’t see the elbow that caught him high against his right eyebrow. Darkness clouded his vision and he stumbled down to one knee, barely catching her second snap-kick by grabbing her ankle. With some regret, he twisted, turning the force of her motion against her, and she spun in the air and slammed against the stage.

Within seconds, they were both up again. Roseâtre raced toward him, his death in her eyes.

“Hold!”