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, Roseatre 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 Roseatre.
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, Roseatre 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. Roseatre 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.
“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.
“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.
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.
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?” Roseatre strangled on the word, the sheen of lazy satisfaction hardening to anger.
Anthony’s lips curled upward.
“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
