Heather Long - Taking the Stage

“You have no reason to assume that, no.” Roseâtre selected the words carefully.

“No, I don’t.” He studied the key, his nostrils flaring.

What did he smell? Our lessons indicated that cats were not the greatest of trackers, relying more on their sight and their reflexes than their sense of smell.

But she’d never observed one up close. Certainly not as close as they’d been when she’d straddled his leg.

Or as close as she’d wanted when she considered straddling the erection that thickened beneath his jeans. Heat ached between her thighs.

Unbelievable.

Even knowing exactly what he was didn’t diminish her desire.

“But she said you were mine and this is a key. That implies ownership.” He asked no question, so Roseâtre kept her own counsel. His head tilted, still studying the key, he lifted it to his nostrils and inhaled a slow, deep breath.

“So the question is, what is this a key to?”

Unfortunately, Anthony chose that exact moment to look directly at her and Roseâtre lifted her hands, the gold shackles shimmering with warmth. A band of heat appeared around her throat and though she couldn’t see it, she knew it was a shining, golden collar, embossed in a language she had never understood.

“They go to these.”

Anthony’s chest expanded. The Amazon’s shackles were cast from the finest spun gold. He couldn’t help but prowl closer to inspect the bracelets that began at her wrists and extended to mid-forearm. The markings reminded him of gauntlets worn into battle, only without the mesh or gold to cover the hands and fingers.

Ignoring Roseâtre’s sharp inhalation, he captured her fingers and turned her hand over. The language was indecipherable. It was neither Greek nor Hieratic. The lettering lacked the smooth bump and flow of Cyrillic.

But the key warmed in his palm when he brought it near the shackles, cooling when he held it away. Stealing a glance at her face, he brought the key closer. The heat was no greater than that found at the side of a pleasant fire, it didn’t burn.

Wild hostility shimmered in Roseâtre’s eyes, but her muscles were quiescent in contrast to the tightness around her mouth. His princess wasn’t pleased by the turn of events. But what did it mean to have the key? He traced his fingers up her arm, delighting in the prickles appearing along her skin.

She could pretend all she liked, but his princess wasn’t immune to him.

The cat purred in approval.

The collar, however, stopped both man and cat. It was a single, gold circlet clasped around her throat. No catch or securing device was readily apparent. In fact, it seemed to have been welded there, as much a part of her throat as a decoration.

The language on the collar shimmered, shifting and reforming. The strange letters transformed into something recognizable.

Anthony’s name.

“Why does an Amazon allow herself to be chained in a slave collar?” There was no mistaking the collar or what it represented. The wrist shackles could have been decorative, but there was no other explanation for the collar. Who did he have to kill to win her freedom?

Or better, take possession of her himself?

“To protect her people, an Amazon would choose such a fate. There is little an Amazon wouldn’t do to protect the women who follow her.” The answer was hard won, pushed through gritted teeth. Anthony’s gaze stroked over her speculatively. This close, he could taste the scent of her warm breath, the hint of cranberries, dates and just the faintest touch of coffee.

The past and the present filled his princess’s lungs, an enchanting creature, deadly and desirable. Anthony fisted his hand around the key.

“Tell me what the key does.” He had a theory. He caressed her throat with his gaze, watching the muscles flex as she swallowed. She didn’t want to tell. But she would.

“The key opens the bracelets and the collar.”

The man wanted to laugh, but the cat arched its back, claws threatening to unsheathe into his closed fists. His princess was an Amazon warrior.

And a slave.

His slave, apparently, a gift of the stage manager for Roseâtre’s alleged crime. The crime of striking out, warring with him, which was in her nature.

In his hand he held not only the key to her body, but the assurance of success in his future. The capture of an Amazon princess would raise his estimation amongst the Pride, allow him the honor of challenging the current Alpha.

He could kill his uncle and take back what should rightfully belong to him. The celebration would be magnificent and last for a full lunar cycle.

And the conquest of this sexy princess was his key to return to the life he’d been forced to abandon. She was a prized trophy, the finest spoil of war, and she would be his forever, bound in gold shackles, catering to his every whim.

His cock hardened painfully as the mental image of her on her hands and knees, head bowed in obeisance. He could taste her obedience on his tongue, but even as the thoughts aroused him, reality flamed through him.

Obedience was not submission.

Control was not dominance.

Slavery was not conquest.

He slid the key into his pocket. The stage manager gave him the vilest and most revered of boons. Roseâtre was his to do with as he pleased. He could take her as much and as often as he liked. Yet, they expected him to return her.

Too bad they’re doomed to disappointment .

Cupping a hand around her neck, he brushed his thumb along her jaw. “Look at me.”

Defiant hazel eyes rose until their gazes clashed. The tiger flexed his claws, but he refused to allow them to pierce the softness of her throat. Rebellion trembled on her lips. Her hands curled into fists. She wanted to strike him. She wanted to take him down, to continue their physical battle until one or both of them could lift an arm no longer.

Amazons didn’t submit. They had to be taken.

“We’re not done with rehearsal. Strip and we’ll do it again.”

He hid a smile at the surprise that blazed through her eyes. But he wasn’t done. “While you dance, I want you to remember how you feel with your legs wrapped around my cat’s back.” His voice whispered against her cheek, his lips pressing the most chaste and simple of kisses to the corner of her eye.

“Think about how it feels when my cat surges between your thighs.”

A convulsive swallow accentuated the shudder that ran through her. No, his Amazon was most definitely not immune. The musk of her arousal was nearly his undoing.

“And then remember, when you want me to do the same, you’ll have to ask.” Anger spiked through her arousal and Anthony laughed. His cat liked her bite. Her sharp claws. Her warrior’s pride.

The man, he had to admit, wasn’t adverse to any of them either. He slid his finger down to where the leotard hugged her shoulder. “Strip.”

And she obeyed, her hot gaze promising retribution as she peeled away the offending black garment and dropped it on the stage. Between them.

Anthony should have retreated, allowed her that simple privacy. But he let his gaze feast even as he refused to allow his hands to roam the curves of her bared flesh. To shape her breasts and to tease the turgid nipples that tightened in the cool air.

It was his turn to swallow. The warmth of the key in his pocket burned against his thigh. She was perfection.

And if given even a sliver of opportunity, she was going to kill him.

This was going to be fun.

Three hours later, her body glistening with sweat, rehearsal was over. The cat adored rubbing up against her, allowing her to caress him, straddle him, drape across him. No matter how potent her arousal, Anthony saw no sign of retreat or surrender in his princess.