Heather Long - Taking the Stage

Everything paused.

Somewhere, beneath the burning fire lapping at her mind, she thought the tiger was holding its breath. With agonizing slowness that sent teasing tingles of pleasure racing across her skin, she rolled her body onto the cat’s back. They’d practiced this for a week, the descent of her leg, the curling of her torso, until she nearly draped herself against the tiger’s back.

They held this position, her sex poised, just out of reach until he surged upward, a thrust of such wild muscle that his fur scraped her sensitive nub. The scent of snow and pine filled her lungs. He smelled delicious.

And then he purred.

The low rumbling vibration pulsed through her and she forgot the music, the show and the audience as a fierce orgasm stole through her body and she arched upward, stretching her arms to the sky, legs locked around his back.

Absolute harmony and pleasure rippled through her. In that moment, she became one with the great beast.

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 .