Taking the Stage: Soulgirls, Book 2 (4 page)

The slide of a tail along her bare thigh surprised the maiden. The intimacy incited a startled desire from both the maiden and the woman playing her part. Wild, unrepentant heat flooded her body and she dropped to crouch against the stage, bare breasts pressed to her biceps as she covered herself, modest and inhibited.

As though parted by the hands of fate, the great tiger strode out of the shadows. The red and orange hues of the stage lights brightened, illuminating the silver white of the beast’s body.

Clinging to her role out of desperation, Roseâtre lifted her head and met the tiger’s hungry gaze.

They were at eye level. And he was huge.

It had to be her imagination, but she could swear the deep blue eyes were hot with lust and intrigue. They roamed over her, demanding and assessing.

The tiger
wanted
.

The racing cadence of throbbing drums stopped, leaving only the splash of water behind a lonely flute to serenade their character’s first encounter. Roseâtre’s maiden peeked from the water, to gaze at her solitary audience as he posed magnificently on the shore.

And by the gods was he magnificent.

Ancient enemies or not, this male would command the attention of even the most aged of the Amazons. Virile. Strong. Powerful.

Desire.

Roseâtre discovered that the maiden’s intoxication was not hard to fabricate. She edged forward, extending her arm, baring her nakedness to the hard heat in those blue eyes.

Fire blossomed in her belly, flaring into a bonfire of raw, aching need that spread, consuming every inhibition against submitting to this lord of the jungle. But in this moment, on this stage, in this play, the maiden, seduced by curiosity, would expose her nakedness.

After all, the tiger was merely a creature of the jungle. Not a man.

The Amazon in her approved of the idea. Approved so much that Roseâtre could barely discern the purely feminine desire entangled with the innocence of the maiden she was supposed to be playing.

As if impatient with her slow approach, the tiger eased forward, head butting against her hand. His whiskers stroked her palm as his head rolled against her fingers.

The role forgotten, Roseâtre stroked the noble brow, feathered over the satiny softness of his ears. Intrigued by the invitation, the tiger continued to crowd closer, until his great face rubbed against her cheek.

A shudder of pure, undiluted lust speared through her. She climbed to her knees, allowing the tiger to rub gently against her chest and the fur rasping over her nipples was electric. She couldn’t help the sharp gasp, the jerk of inner muscles squeezing against an imagined thrust.

The maiden wanted to feel the soft, silky fur pressing against her most intimate places.

And so did Roseâtre.

The forbidden craving flowed through her as she stroked her hands along his head to his shoulders. His fur caressed her skin, tormented her nipples and excited her sex. For the first time, Roseâtre discovered that sliding her leg over the creature’s magnificent back wasn’t accompanied by the arrested sensation of wariness.

The great beast stilled as she arched her leg into the air, the music rose in a slow, primitive aria. The prolonged movement, a drawn-out, stop-motion of consuming desire. Her toes pointed to the rafters and she held the pose, arms wrapped around the silken heat sheathing the beast. Her sex ached for the promised contact.

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.

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.