Bound in Blue (31 page)

He took her face in his hands and cupped her
cheeks. “I’m glad you had crazy dreams. They brought you to me. To
this. You’re exactly who you should be.” He waited for that to sink
in. “And you’re exactly where you should be, here in my arms.”

“I know, Master.”

“Do you really know? Or do you need me to
prove it?” Her shiver and fearful look started a pulse in his cock,
a drumbeat that seemed to pound whenever she was near.

“I love when you prove things to me,” she
whispered. “When you really prove them hard.”

“Upstairs, little one,” he said, turning her
toward the hall. “Wait at the foot of the bed. I’ll be up in a
minute.”
As soon as I compose myself. As soon as I regain my
control.

If I ever regain my control, now that you’re
in my life.

* * * * *

Sara skittered upstairs and dimmed the lights
to her Master’s preferred scene level, and then positioned herself
to wait at the foot of his bed. Their bed. It was her bed now too,
with her Mongolian leather cuffs bolted to the headboard, and a
matching pair he’d ordered for the footboard. The bed was set up to
restrain her more than offer relaxation, but that was okay with
her.

Since she’d moved in with him, they’d
developed all kinds of habits and protocols that kept her in a
constant state of longing. The way he touched her, the way he
talked to her, the way he kept her naked, the way he sent her
upstairs whenever he liked...

He wasn’t only a Master, though. He was a
caring fiancé too. He took her on dates and bought her gifts, and
talked a lot about their future. He could be tough and exacting,
and then be so sweet she wanted to cry. She never knew what she’d
get with Jason. Sometimes she got both sides of him at once, and
those were the most wonderful times.

She heard his footsteps and straightened up
her slave pose, arching her back a little more. Her pussy was
already wet. It wasn’t only the waiting. It was the way he made her
do it, in that pose that offered everything, that forced her to be
open and displayed for his pleasure. He required that pose because
it reminded her she was his, that her body was his to use however
he wanted, whenever he wanted.

Oh God, she got so out-of-her-mind horny
whenever she thought about it.

Her feelings must have shown on her face,
because as soon as he looked at her, he chuckled and started
stripping off his clothes. She stared as he revealed each elegant,
muscular part of his body.

“Come here, Sara,” he said when he was
finished. “Look what I’ve brought you.”

She hurried to him on her hands and knees.
His gift might have been lingerie, or chocolate, or a hurty new
whip. Any of them would have made her happy. But no, it was a
coiled length of soft rope, custom-dyed in a pale blue color.

“Oh, Master. It’s beautiful.” She touched the
woven edge. “Where did you find it?”

“I ordered it from a guy I know. I was
inspired after watching your act.” As he spoke, he knelt and drew
her arms behind her, and started tying them together from elbow to
wrist. Each tug, each touch, each whisper of his fingertips aroused
her more. When he finished, he helped her stand and walked her over
to the full-length mirror in the corner, and turned her so she
could see what he’d done. He’d crafted beautiful knots, a ladder of
them matching her eyes and her ring. As she looked over her
shoulder, she caught his gaze in the glass. Her heart was too full
to come up with fancy words.

“I love you,” she said instead, tugging at
the bindings. No, she couldn’t get free. Which was good, because
she didn’t want to get free.

He squeezed and caressed her breasts. “Thank
Master for helping you be a pretty, color-coordinated little
slave.”

“Thank you, Master.” Against her better
judgment, she added, “Although I think it’s more for your benefit
than mine.”

He snorted. “Aching for a few more marks on
your ass?”

She looked back to study those in the mirror
too. “Yes, Master. If it pleases you.”

Yes, Master. Thank you, Master. If it
pleases you.
Such a limited vocabulary for the depth of these
games they played. He put a finger under her chin and tilted her
face up. “Who are you?”

“I’m your slave, Master.”

“Are your eyes pretty?”

“Yes, Master.”

“Is every part of you lovely and beautiful to
your owner?”

“Yes, Master,” she said through gathering
tears. He always did this to her, made her get all emotional with
only a look. A touch.

I love you, I love you, I love you. Touch
me.

He moved his hands down her body, over the
rope, over bare, sensitive skin. She didn’t resist when he pushed
her to the floor, arranging her with her cheek against the hardwood
and her ass in the air.

“I love you, Sara,” he said when she was in
position. She made fists as he pushed his cock inside her, inch by
lingering inch. In the end it didn’t please him to give her any
more marks, unless she counted the shadows left behind by the rope
when he unraveled it. Even free from her fetters, she knew in her
heart she was bound to him forever.

Eternal love, bound in blue.

The End

Thank you for reading this second book in my
Cirque Masters series. If you haven’t read the first one, you can
find Theo and Kelsey’s dramatic love story in the pages of
Cirque de Minuit
. The third story,
Master’s Flame
,
will be available in the spring of 2014 and will feature Michel
Lemaitre. Please read the included excerpt for a sneak peak at
Michel and Valentina’s book.

Many thanks to my beta readers, Linzy
Antoinette, Rebecca, and Doris, and to my editors Audrey, and Lina
Sacher. Thanks also to Annabel’s Army and Annabel’s Naughty
Brigade, my super-readers, whose tireless support and encouragement
inspires me to write another day. I’m grateful for every review and
every recommendation, and for the fact that you put up with my
silliness on Twitter and Facebook. I love all of you. You know who
you are.

An excerpt from
Master’s Flame
, the
third book in the Cirque Masters series

Valentina had to walk fast to keep up with
Michel Lemaitre’s purposeful strides—and she
had
to keep up,
because he hadn’t yet loosened his grip on her hand.

Not that she minded. She could barely believe
she was walking through the halls of Cirque du Monde’s world
headquarters on the arm of the powerful, sexy CEO. She’d liked
Naples, and liked performing with her family as part of a traveling
variety act, but they never left Italy. City festivals and
community fairs were small time. She wanted to tour the world and
the surest way to do that was to join Mr. Lemaitre’s company, with
shows in numerous countries and touring productions that traveled
the globe.

And the man beside her? He was nothing less
than a genius, and that excited her. He exuded some intensity, some
electric energy that made her heart pound. No, not her heart. Her
sex. The moment she met him, the moment he took her hand so many
months ago in Italy, she had recognized him as a sexual creature
and responded to him in kind.

Mr. Lemaitre was tall and muscular, his
swarthy physicality as attractive to her as his piercing blue eyes.
He was in his mid 40’s, seasoned, elegant and handsome, the type of
man who commanded attention and knew what he was about. His
features were prominent, finely carved, their aristocratic
haughtiness softened by his head of unruly hair. Glossy black waves
tumbled over his forehead and behind his ears, tapered and tamed to
a neater arrangement in back.

Tamed.
It was an effort for him, she
understood, this tame front. His exquisitely tailored suit, his
styled hair, even his neatly manicured facial hair spoke of tamed
impulses. Control. Nothing fascinated Valentina like an intriguing,
complex man. Adei was charming and enthusiastic, but so much on the
surface. So
sweet
.

Michel Lemaitre was not sweet. He was
something else.

Mr. Lemaitre had stood and watched with no
compunction as she enjoyed the pleasures of Adei’s agile mouth. She
knew it was poor behavior to steal away with Adei, but as always,
in the moment, desire won out over reason. Anyway, Mr. Lemaitre had
seemed far from scandalized. Another reason she wanted to be here.
Performers talked, and Cirque du Monde was known for its culture of
sexual abandon. Adei had answered her come-hither stare without a
second thought.

“Oh, I’m so happy,” she burst out, skipping
beside him. “This place is...is wonderful.”

He looked over, dropping her hand to allow
her to do an exuberant pirouette. “I do not doubt you think so,” he
said drily, “considering how you spent the last half hour.”

“Half hour? It was only twenty minutes.”

He raised a brow. “And before, in the
showers?”

“Oh. That.” Perhaps he was not completely
approving. “I told Mr. Beck that man was my father, but he isn’t
really.”

“I rejoice to hear it.”

She couldn’t pin down his tone. Was he angry,
or teasing her? “My father is home in Italy,” she said. “I met Lugo
at a cafe and he wanted to come.”

“He wanted to come, or you compelled him to
come?”

“He had nothing better to do. He’s very much
a...what is the word? Slacker? Anyway, I think he’s leaving.”

She
hoped
he was leaving. Lugo’s avid,
clumsy lovemaking had thrilled her at first. She loved big, brutish
men who grunted and groped. Then again, she loved cultured, urbane
men too. She slid a look at
Signore
Lemaitre, who was large
and had dark hair like Lugo, but was nothing at all like him. She
wondered what it would be like to share a bed with him. She’d heard
that the Cirque founder was omnisexual and intensely dominant.

Fascinating. A fascinating and intriguing
man.

He paused, bringing her to a stop. “In here,
if you please.”

He guided her through a set of double doors
into an office complex. There was an outer waiting area with
conference rooms and cubicles, and Cirque posters decorating the
walls. She loved design and art, and the entire office sang with
artistic energy. The area was flanked by a frosted glass wall with
a door that read
Michel Lemaitre, Cirque du Monde
. She
suppressed a frisson of excitement as he led her inside with a
light touch on her back.

“Please have a seat, Miss Sancia.” He nudged
her toward a worn leather arm chair facing his desk as he removed
his suit jacket and hung it near the door. She looked around at the
memento-laden shelves, at polished wood furniture that spoke of
refinement, wealth, and success. These walls too were decorated
with posters and photographs of Cirque performers in rehearsals and
shows. She recognized some of them. They were the trailblazers, the
outstanding ones. She hoped she would earn a place on his wall one
day. He only had to give her a job to do. She would perform the
hell out of it, whatever he wanted. She lived for the high of
performance, for that soaring feeling of expressing herself.
Please
, she thought, turning her eyes back to him.
Please
let me express myself here.

His eyes locked on hers across his desk and
for a moment she felt frightened by the depth of his scrutiny, not
that she had anything to hide. She lived in the open, as herself,
as much as society allowed. She hoped he would respect that.
“Well,” she said, as silence spun out between them.

“Well,” he repeated with a slight quirk to
his lips. “First, I must commend you. Your English is excellent.
Much better than my Italian.”

She felt pleased at his compliment, although
language came easily to her. “I have never had problems learning
things.”

“I’m glad to hear that.”

“I can help your Italian if you like.”

He tilted his head at her. Did he hide a
smile? “I believe we’ll limp along just fine in English,” he said.
“Miss Sancia—”

“You can call me Valentina if you like,” she
interrupted. “Or Tina. My friends call me Tina.”

“I am your employer, not your friend.”

His curt reminder both devastated her and
turned her on. “Of course,” she said, sitting on her hands to keep
them still.

He pushed forward a thick file on one side of
his desk. “Miss Sancia, do you know what this is?”

“My dossier?”

“Yes. Do you know what is inside it?”

She bit a lip, thinking over his question.
“Complimentary things, I hope. Any police reports…they are not to
be believed. I did not vandalize that fountain, merely went
swimming in it because the water was so beautiful that day.”

“Miss Sancia—”

“And I was only naked because, well, I had on
my favorite dress and I didn’t want to ruin it. I was not even
fully naked. Just mostly naked.”

“Miss Sancia—”

“And that other time, no matter what the
report says, I did not force the Italian councilman’s sons into any
inappropriate behavior.”

His blue eyes widened. “
Sons
?
Plural?”

“Monsieur, I never would have. I merely—”

“There are no police reports,” he said,
cutting off her rebuttals. “Although we may continue this
discussion at another time. This dossier contains my talent scout’s
notes, photographs, and my own notes from our brief meeting last
year. Do you remember?”

She nodded. How on earth could she forget?
What was the purpose of this private meeting? Was she not
officially hired yet? Had he gone over her dossier and decided she
was not, after all, a Cirque du Monde-caliber artist? She was
beginning to regret stealing a little “private time” with the
handsome gymnast in the unused room. “About before, about the man
who was...”