If only he could domesticate the princess as easily.
Roseâtre needed to practice sliding her lithe, long body down the back of a cat tonight and despite the blood roaring in his ears, Anthony knew it was better to rehearse with Nalini.
For now.
The Amazon-turned-showgirl seemed to have timed her entrance, appearing from the shadows wrapping the back of the stage. Her black leotard molded every sensuous curve and highlighted the smooth, long torso from the swell of her breasts to the roundness of her hips. His immediate erection applauded her supple form, but his mind rebelled at the black.
Always black.
The woman needed to dress in richer, warmer tones that would give color to her pale, soft flesh. He pictured her in Earth tones that brought out the flickers of green in her hazel eyes or jeweled sheaths that he could unwrap, inch by silken inch, to explore her creamy skin.
He allowed his gaze to rake over her, appreciating the clean, easy lines of her posture as she strolled across the stage. No. She owned the stage and allowed it the grace of her presence.
Her feet glittered and sparkled. He lifted both brows, curious and amused by yet another pair of shoes. Her boring black leotard might be the same night after night, but the shoes were always different. High heels decked out with shiny baubles and smelling of cold, hard diamonds and gems.
“Good evening.” Her voice was the cool winds of autumn brushing aside the drizzling heat of summer.
“You’re late, princess.” Irritated by his own reaction, he nudged Nalini aside and stood.
“I’m well, thank you. And how are you?” She paused a few feet away, denying him access to her precious bubble.
Too bad.
He closed the distance between them in three long strides, prowling around her. The heels added inches to her height, but he was the largest male born to his Pride. He understood the advantage of size and exploited it.
“Lose the shoes, princess.”
“Why?”
So easy to bait. He opened his mouth, letting the scent of her wash across his teeth, brush his gums and coat his throat. He savored the hints of sage, paprika and oregano tinged with the bite of bronze. Her long, sinuous figure was crowned with a cascade of deep black hair. He wondered what the sunlight would bring out in the dark mass, set off by a single lock of silvery white that fell from her center part to caress her right cheek.
“Because you need to be able to work your body along her back. The heels will hurt her.” Enticed, he caught the end of the white streak and rolled it between his fingers. It was as soft as the downy fur on the belly of any of his tigers.
A single white streak, amongst all the dark and cream.
“Stop that.” She slapped his hand, but her words broke in the center on a huff of breath.
Annoyed or aroused? He sampled a lungful of her scent and smiled. Definitely aroused.
He longed to flex his claws, but settled for curling his toes against the hard wood of the stage floor. Ignoring her earlier rebuff, he twined the white lock over two fingers and ducked his head down to run his nose over it.
It smelled different from the rest of her. Elements of mint, apricot, fig and date jostled together, creating an enticing fruity mixture.
Why is this so different from the rest of her?
No stink of bronze to bite at the back of his throat. No shimmers of desert winds luring him in to an oasis trap. Amazons crossed the Ural Mountains over the centuries, hunting his people for their pelts and coats. His great-grandfather served as a battle cape for their great queen.
He’d even seen the bitch wearing it on television.
So why did his princess smell of sweet, succulent fruits on these wickedly different strands of hair?
A shiver of motion and cool metal burned against the muscles of his thigh. He spared a glance downward. A silver spike, easily three inches long, pressed into the denim dangerously close to his groin. Where’d she hide that? His cock swelled at the challenge.
“Does my princess want to play?” Anthony’s chest expanded, his eyes narrowed as they drifted up the length of her. Close enough that the odd, icy warmth of her body teased and tingled the bare flesh of his chest and arms.
He almost wished he’d forgone the jeans. The silver spike pressed forward, digging into his flesh enticingly. He tugged the lock of hair, a schoolboy’s salute of appreciation, before releasing it. One hand plunging between them, to immobilize her wrist, Anthony wrapped his free arm around her middle to drag her against him.
His erection strained against his jeans, tormented by the press of soft flesh to his front. Anthony gazed down at her startled expression with amusement. A fleeting amusement as it turned out. She simply fell back over his arm, her legs twisting between his and hooking the backs of his knees.
Anthony rolled, attempting to take the brunt of the fall on his side and shield her, while keeping her vicious little spike from emasculating him. But his princess wasn’t done. No sooner had he shot an arm out to catch them, than he tumbled head over ass to land flat on his back, the princess straddling him.
The heat at the apex of her thighs burned into his chest as her knees dug into his forearms. The silver spike jutted threateningly at the soft skin of his exposed throat, forcing his head up.
“You know, princess, if you wanted to ride me, all you had to do was ask.” He grinned at the combination of lust and outrage racing like storm clouds over her features, wrinkling her nose, softening her lips and tightening her jaw.
Damn, she would be fun in bed.
With just an ounce of regret, he shoved up with his arms and dead lifted her weight, sending her flying over his head. Anthony bounded to his feet with a rolled push of his shoulders. He threw a hand out to keep Nalini still. The white tiger watched the wrestling with bored disinterest.
Roseâtre hit the stage with her shoulder and rolled to her feet, wobbling on her spiky little heels. A misfortune for his princess. Since the unsteadiness threw off her balance, he pounced. He plucked the spike from her fingers and tossed it off the stage to clatter on the floor of the empty orchestra pit.
They went down in a pile of arms and legs. He scissored her knees together with his own, his hands forcing her arms to the stage. Unsurprisingly, his strength was more than capable of grappling with hers. When her teeth snapped at his face, the cat inside slipped its leash.
He dropped his head to her throat and bit down gently, tasting the warm salt of her cool skin. Just hard enough to bruise, not tear. Delight speared him. Her writhing hips halted when he pressed the evidence of his arousal against her belly.
With the lightest of shakes, he let her get used to the danger of the man at her throat until the stiffness in her shoulders released. The relaxation of her body was a ploy. He spared a look up the curve of her jaw. He couldn’t quite make out her face, but he could almost smell the mutiny boiling within.
Her hands flexed, the muscles in her arms jerked in response. He tightened his grip. Amazons didn’t surrender. If he allowed her even an ounce of freedom, she would strike. Anthony held her firm, refusing to yield the advantage. The scent of her fed his burning desire to stroke his tongue against her flesh, to taste the sweet and the tart.
If she wants submission, she’ll damn well give it first.
Roseâtre’s hips bumped his and he growled, a low sound vibrating out of his throat. He longed to see her face, to see the expression in those hazel eyes. Was that an invitation?