Heather Long - Taking the Stage

“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!”

“Hold!” The command ricocheted through the bloodlust clouding Roseâtre’s vision. A sharp, shooting pain flared around her wrists, emphasizing the command until her fists jerked open and her knees collapsed. She crashed to the stage, just two feet from the man—no, the tiger—she’d allowed the blasphemy of seduction.

Short, fast steps clicked across the stage. That Heidi allowed Rose to hear her approach was a distant show of respect.

Very distant.

Anthony’s lust-filled gaze roamed over her face, a turbulent storm of emotion illuminating every feature. Heavy brows drew together as his gaze rose from her to the woman bearing down on them. Roseâtre knew Heidi was behind her, but the command—an indelible imprint on her soul—held her firm.

The enchanted shackles on her wrists burned. Normally invisible to the naked eye, magic flared where the slave bands held.

She would hold.

Until she was released.

If she was released.

“What the hell do you both think you’re doing?” Heidi appeared in her peripheral vision.

“Rehearsing.” Anthony’s answer was ridiculous, yet at the same time, it echoed with honesty.

“Really?” Unfortunately, Heidi didn’t believe him any more than Roseâtre did. “Roseâtre?”

She panted, the Amazon warrior within her scrabbling against the bands of authority and submission. She’d allowed herself to be shackled. There was no shame in the gold-embossed manacles securing each wrist.

“He’s a were,” she confessed the source of her sin. The shackles allowed nothing but honesty. “I was trying to kill him.”

Anthony’s gaze was a visceral scrape across her skin. He shook his head, a gesture that was both surprisingly comforting and catlike in the same moment. “We were playing.” His interruption was unexpected and unwelcome.

Allowing his lies to protect her from punishment would be an unforgivable stain on her honor.

“Are you sure?” Heidi squatted down until she was eye level with Roseâtre, the force of the hold command securing the Amazon to the stage. Her docile position a demand of the shackles, a willing concession to the oath she’d sworn.

“Yes. He actually tried to seduce me. But he’s a were. Worse, he’s a weretiger.”

Heidi sighed, a soft, breathy whisper of regret.

“She didn’t try to kill me.” Anthony was on his feet now, the sheen of his gold skin reflecting the overhead lights. The muscles rippled across his shoulders as he extended his arms. “Bruises. No wounds.”

The stage manager spared Roseâtre a rueful look. “I am sorry, Roseâtre, but reparations must be made.”

“You will not punish her.” The budding threat in the weretiger’s throaty vocals sent an impermissible flux of lust through her being. Was the cat seriously trying to protect her?

Given a few more moments, she would have tried to separate his head from his shoulders.

Or left him neutered .

The combination of betrayal and protection made her head ache.