Master's Flame (Cirque Masters 3)

“You’re going to leave me like this?” she yelled as he threaded his belt back through the loops.

“You’re my slave, aren’t you? Or have you forgotten again?”

Oh no. “No, Master. I haven’t forgotten. I haven’t!”

But it was too late. He undid his pants and went for the condom and lubricant. When he returned he yanked her legs up again and pushed them down against her stomach to get them out of his way. She was helpless to fight him with her wrists still cuffed to the bed. She felt his cock pressing against her ass, pushing its way past her tense ring. “Who do you serve?” he asked.

“I serve you,” she said through gritted teeth. And I can’t wait for you to release me, because you make me crazy.

She was crazy, pure and simple, because this violence turned her on. Her pussy was so wet she could feel her juices dripping down to mix with the lubricant he used on her asshole. The music flowed on in her ears, centuries-old melodies and harmonies while he fucked her as a punishment and reminder. She felt so full of him, not just her body but her mind and her heart. Finally, her Master came with an especially deep thrust, pumping hard and then going still. He stared down at her with that fierce, intent look she’d come to know so well, that look she’d always remember. That possessive look.

After a few moments he pulled away, releasing her limp, shaking legs. She stayed where she was, more frustrated and unsatisfied than ever. His shirt still hung loose and his hair looked as wild as his expression. He pushed her legs apart again.

“I want you to lie here like this, legs wide open, until the music’s done. I’ll be watching so don’t try to close them. After that I’ll let you up to clean off, but you’re sleeping cuffed tonight.”

In other words, no hope of a stolen orgasm even if she’d been brave enough to try. She wasn’t brave enough, though. Her ass hurt, and her unsatisfied pussy hurt even worse. She relaxed into the explicit position he ordered and let the cool night air soothe her pitiful clit as Handel’s sonatas went on and on, taunting her.

Crazy didn’t even begin to describe the way she felt.

Chapter Thirteen: Bobble

Michel sat at the tables flanking the headquarters stage, ready to critique the latest progress on Cirque Élémental. Jason sat to his left, marking out the order of performances. All his other directors were there, looking excited and nervous. Good, they ought to be. This was the point in the game where the acts needed to look polished, because they still had staging to complete. Set building, costumes, makeup to plan in its final form, not to mention programs and promotional campaigns.

Unfortunately, Michel wasn’t in a very good mood. He hadn’t slept well. He doubted Valentina had either, considering her beleaguered expression when he woke her, but routines had to be adhered to. He had knelt over her and buried himself in her throat while she remained restrained in the cuffs from the night before. “You wanted this,” he’d reminded her as she struggled beneath him.

Six more days.

“Michel?”

He turned to Jason. “Yes?”

“Did you hear anything I just said?”

He didn’t appreciate Jason’s bemused expression. “Apparently not.”

“We’re going to do the acts in order, including the interval skits, so you can give feedback on those too. The ones that are done, anyway.”

“Yes, fine.” He flicked a hand. Interval skits were the last thing on his mind, but he was impressed that Genevieve already had such things in hand. Well, she was one of the best Mistresses the Citadel had ever known.

The Citadel. He hadn’t been there in weeks. He assumed all was in order at the club or Jason and Sara would have told him. Strange though, that he hadn’t even thought about the Citadel lately, or his private room there...

“Not in the most attentive mood today, are you?”

“What?” Michel snapped at Jason. “Why do you keep talking when I’m obviously not listening?”

“Because these are notes you need to know. Do you want to reschedule this for some other day?”

“No, of course not.” Michel gave a big dramatic sigh, like it was everyone else’s fault his mind was stuck on Handel concertos and tears. It was only one person’s fault. Hers.

No, damn it. His.

He squared his shoulders and attended carefully to the rest of the questions and explanations from Genevieve, Jason, and his other directors. If he expected one hundred percent from others, he needed to give one hundred percent himself. At last the stage was set and the artists of Élémental began to show off their progress. Michel watched the acts with a critical eye. He expected technical excellence and precision at this point, but he also demanded something more, something best described as…heart.

Expressions, affectations, even the smallest hand gestures had to carry meaning in a Cirque act. He marked down which acts and skits had found this special “heart” and which hadn’t, and noted improvements that might be made. Valentina played a part in one of the skits, gesturing and emoting to the non-existent back rows as only a fourth-generation Italian circus princess could. While he watched his slave, Genevieve described the costume she envisioned for Valentina.

Michel, meanwhile, envisioned Valentina completely nude.

Attention. Control. One hundred percent.

Michel refocused on Valentina as a performer, not a sex slave. More acts followed, including Sara’s solo trapeze. Every time she took to the air, he thought she did it a little better. He could feel Jason shifting beside him; he leaned his way and whispered, “Your fiancée is something else.”

“Your daughter’s not bad either,” he said with a smile.

A complicated trampoline act came next. It took some time to set up, time they would have to minimize in the final production. He added that to his notes, then looked up to see Valentina’s hand-to-hand troupe taking the stage. In this case, anyway, there was no complex staging, no unwieldy equipment to move into place. There was only Valentina and four men who were strong enough to hold her over their heads and send her skyward, catching her every time.

He settled back as the act began. Showmanship certainly wasn’t a problem. She had that “heart” he wanted in abundance, and her intensity seemed to fuel her partners. The four young men had been great athletes in other acts. Now, working with Valentina, they had grown into performers. They were a pleasure to watch, strong and sure in their movements as they created formations and tossed and caught Valentina, then rolled into another section of the act. Valentina’s balance was a miracle, as was her confidence as she teetered on her partner’s palms. He stared at her, remembering the night before, remembering her tears, but now...now...

When the bobble happened it shocked him, because she’d lulled him and everyone else into believing her movements were effortless, her balance a foregone thing. Worse, the bobble was followed by a shriek and a pitch toward the earth that Andrew tried to halt by grasping her ankle and holding tight. Valentina’s head hit the stage so hard it bent sideways, almost to her shoulder. The dull sound of impact echoed in the mostly-empty theater. Someone screamed.

Jason vaulted over the table and ran to the stage, breaking through the concerned cluster of her partners. Michel stayed where he was, too petrified to draw breath. No, no, no, no, no.

It was his fault. He’d kept her up late. He’d bound her for hours. If she was paralyzed now because of his selfish, over-rigid mastery… But she was moving. Her toes were moving, her legs were moving. She pushed everyone back and stood up. Michel forced his muscles to fire again, made himself stand and walk over to join them.

“No, it was my fault,” she said to Andrew. “It was my mistake.”

When she noticed him, she shrank back a little. “Please, Mr. Lemaitre, let me do it again. I can do that skill so easily.”

“You’re not doing anything until you’ve been checked out at a hospital.” His voice sounded a lot angrier than he meant it to be.

“But I can do it.”

“Then why did you fall?” he said, cutting her off. “What caused it? A waver in balance? A lack of concentration?” A cage-bed, and cuffs, and Handel?

Jason held up a hand. “I think we should get her to a hospital before we start yelling about what she did wrong.”

Yelling? He hadn’t realized he was yelling. His heart pounded hard and fast and his shoulders ached with tension.

“I don’t need a hospital,” she said, moving her head from side to side. “As you can see, I’m perfectly fine.”

“You could have a cracked vertebrae or a concussion.” Jason stilled her head between his hands, then felt over her scalp for the knot where she’d bumped it. Michel felt jealous that Jason touched her so tenderly, so gently. He wanted to push him away. “I’ll take her in,” said Jason, turning to him. “You should stay here and finish the critiques. Everyone was really excited to perform for you.”

Michel didn’t want to leave Valentina’s side. But Jason was right. There were performers who wouldn’t be able to sleep tonight without some feedback from him.

“Call me,” he said to Jason through gritted teeth. “Call me from the hospital.” He turned to Valentina. She wouldn’t meet his eyes.

*** *** ***

Valentina endured a battery of tests at the hospital, scans and x-rays, and a lot of complicated questions that Jason translated into English for her. She felt tired, but not tired in a head-injury way. Just tired in an exhausted, frustrated way.

Stupid, stupid. Of all the stupid times to make a mistake.