Bound in Blue (Cirque Masters 2)

“It’s okay, Sara,” Jason said, pushing her hair back from her face. “It’s really okay.”

“Last night...when me and you...” She cried harder. “I didn’t know you were here to see the act, and to offer us the job. When I saw you backstage, I felt so embarrassed. I’m sorry I went with you last night. That I slept with you and left you.”

She shrank away from him every time he reached out, or he would have taken her in his arms. “Please stop apologizing,” he said. “I wish you weren’t in a relationship, but I wouldn’t give last night back for anything. Really, there are no hard feelings. I’m more worried about you and your lover. What will he do if he finds out about…you and me?”

She sniffled and swiped at her cheeks. “My lover?”

“Your partner? What’s his name?” He made a pitiful stab at the conglomeration of syllables, but Sara cut him off before he could finish.

“Baat? Baat isn’t my lover.” She made a disgusted sound. “He’s just my trapeze partner. We’ve known each other a long time, and we live together to save money. So he’ll know if I leave and he’ll try to stop me. I only need to get there, you see? And then he’ll probably come.”

Now it was Jason shaking his head in confusion. “What? Get where?”

“To Paris,” she cried. “To Cirque du Monde. Baat won’t come, but I want to go.” Her voice shook with emotion, or perhaps fear. “Is it possible for me to come without him? Do you still want me after…after what went on last night?”

Jason fell silent, confused by the idea of how he could possibly not want her. Especially now that he really couldn’t have her again.

“The past is the past,” he made himself say. “See, if you’d only let me finish when I started to tell you where I worked.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize again. I mean it. Let’s start over, okay? So, you want to come to Paris?”

“Yes! If I go, perhaps he’ll come too. Otherwise we’ll both stay here forever, and this isn’t the life I want.”

Her gaze pleaded with him to understand, but he understood completely. She’d learned flawless English. She’d taken a job at a sex club to raise extra money. She’d had a plan to escape her current situation, and thank God, he could help her with that.

“I have the money you gave me,” she said, reaching in her bag. “And my passport. Is it enough to get there? I can pay the rest back later, out of my earnings.”

Jason tucked the currency back in her bag, and trapped her shaking hand. “Cirque du Monde will pay for everything. They’ll handle the visas and work permits, all that. If you’re anxious to go, we can swing by your place and get your things, and leave as soon as tomorrow.”

She shook her head, bursting into tears again. “No, see? We can’t get my things. Baat won’t let me go. I had to sneak away.”

Jason stared at her. Again, the words “international incident” pinged in his brain. But she was a grown woman with money and a passport, and a job offer. Well, presumably she had a job offer, even if Baat wasn’t coming. Jason would pay to keep her in Paris himself, if it came to that. But he didn’t think it would come to that.

“Are there any legal reasons you can’t go? A contract with Baat, or Circus Mongolia?”

She shook her head. “No, there’s nothing.”

“So it’s the whole lure-your-partner-to-Paris-by-stealing-away-in-the-night gambit?” he asked. “You’re sure about this? It’s a long trip.”

She nodded, touching her lips. “I’m sure I want to go.”

Jason thought she looked awfully conflicted for someone whose mind was made up. “What about tonight? Where will you stay?” He couldn’t hold back the words, although he tried to. “Would you like to stay here? As my guest, of course. We don’t have to...” Attack each other. Fuck each other to pieces. Fall into our true roles—Master and slave. Her hair was still damp from a shower, her face free of the vampy makeup she’d worn at the sex club. She smelled like flowers and looked like innocence.

Oh God. As much as he wanted to, he couldn’t play with her again. Professionalism. Boundaries. They’d be working together in Paris since he was in charge of new act development. Even as a coach, he’d never slept with his charges.

“You look exhausted,” he said, getting up to cross to his suitcase. “Why don’t we finalize our plans in the morning when you’re rested?” He handed her a bottle of water. “Drink at least half of this, then lie down on the bed and close your eyes.”

Damn it, that was his Dom voice. He didn’t know how else to behave around her, but he had to figure it out. Professionalism. Boundaries.

She gave a little sigh, a shiver revealing just how exhausted she was. She drank the water as he’d told her, then recapped the bottle, kicked off her shoes, and went into the bathroom. When she returned, she stopped by the narrow bed. “I don’t want to take up your space. Maybe I should just—”

“What did I tell you to do?”

She blinked at him, then answered quietly, “You told me to lie down on the bed.”

She’s not your slave. You shouldn’t do this to her. But in his heart she was his. She cried out for his control with her eyes, her body language. The air between them changed, vibrated with longing and emotional resonance. Slowly, with the grace of a slave, she climbed onto the bed and lay back. Blood filled his cock even though this wasn’t a sexual moment. Her obedience alone aroused him.

He pulled the blankets up to cover her. “Close your eyes.”

She did as he asked, but her whole body was tense. Jason left her and went to his computer, because if he touched her, if he went anywhere near her, he’d lay waste to her body.

Instead he composed another note.

Michel,

Sara (trapezist) is coming. She’s going to need shelter, clothing, money right away.

Please have H.R. purchase another ticket for the flight 23 May.

He knew the ticket would be in his inbox in the morning, that Lemaitre would never fail an artist in need. His boss might be angry the partner wasn’t coming, he might demand explanations, but he’d let Sara come and prove herself.

And if she woke in the morning and changed her mind? He’d have to convince her to go, explain that her destiny lay elsewhere. She was an artist with great potential. She had no business waitressing at a sex club for extra money, in a noisy, dirty city in Mongolia. She belonged in Paris, under Michel Lemaitre’s wing.

He turned back to the bed to catch her watching him. He made a soft, chiding sound. “Why are you still awake?”

She wrenched her eyes shut. Adorable, obedient slave.

No, not your slave.

He crossed to the bed and shed his shirt, but left his jeans on. Professionalism. Self-control.

“Is it okay if I sleep next to you?” he asked, sliding under the covers. “I won’t do anything, I promise.”

Her eyes were still shut tight. “It’s okay if you want to,” she said in a quivery voice. “If you want to do something, because...”

“Because what?” he asked when she didn’t finish her thought. Boundaries, motherfucker! “Come here.”

She turned and pressed against his front, and held onto his shoulders. It was like she was trying to burrow inside his chest. “I can’t say it. I can’t explain.”

Both hunger and understanding surged within him. Somehow, they were connected this way. “You don’t have to explain. I feel it too. However, we’re going to be working together in Paris. It would be better if we...if we...” He lost his train of thought tracing the slender column of her neck.

She sighed and looked up into his eyes. Blue, such a crazy, pale blue. “Better if we what?” she asked.

“Better if we keep a professional distance.”

She was plastered against his front, every inch of her pressed to every inch of him. When she moved her hips, his cock ached in response. He tightened his fingers around her neck. She could still breathe, but only because he let her.

/>