Page 65 of Vampire's Choice
Spreading his wings, he carried them up over one section of tiered seating and dropped them behind it. The area beneath was screened because they kept extra props there, shielded from audience view. He pushed her into that space, turned her toward a waist-high cabinet and shoved her down on it, opening her jeans and pulling them to her knees. He didn’t ask, didn’t prepare her, but she needed no preparation. She was drenched with need as he thrust into her.
“Come now,” he hissed.
The orgasm detonated through her. When he braced his hand by her shoulder, she sank her teeth back into his forearm to muffle her cries. He worked himself in her, a smooth yet forceful taking that had her losing awareness of anything but him and this moment.
She’d been in control for so long. Had to be. He’d taken it away from her. Reminding her of what he’d told her.
If a Master decides he wants you, he won’t give you a choice.
He released with a groan, his wings draping over her, over them both, a cloak that held them in darkness. She gathered them to her, holding the feathers against her face.
“You haven’t even properly kissed me yet,” she said at last. Softly. Breathless.
“I don’t kiss women,” he said.
That hurt, but she refused to let the implication that she was nothing different from other females take away from the moment. “Why not?” she asked instead.
A dozen heartbeats, breaths slowing, synchronizing. “This isn’t a time for talking,” he said. “Be still, Ruth.”
She would have pursued it further, maybe even lashed out, but he laid his forehead against her back, between her shoulder blades. The moistness of his breath through her shirt, the heat, had a strange vulnerability to it.
“Okay,” she said. Held the feathers closer. Okay.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Over the next week, those pursuing leads, like the Vampire Council and Daegan, had no new developments. And Clara had no new visions.
Maybe the failed kidnapping attempt had sent the bad guys back to the drawing board. Whatever diabolical plan they’d been hatching had been put on the shelf, for now.
“The Trads aren’t known for their complicated political strategies,” Yvette had pointed out. “And since they’ll stab one another in the back in a heartbeat, whoever perceives himself in charge can change just as fast.”
In the meantime, it gave Clara a respite, something everyone welcomed, even if the silence was worrisome. Yvette briskly directed everyone, including her fortune-teller, to focus on the upcoming show schedule. They had three-day bookings in four different towns. Circus season was in high gear.
Ruth reveled in the chance to be part of the routine. They were some of the best days she’d had as an adult vampire.
It lacked only in one area. Merc.
The few times she saw him, he was in the company of others, and he made no attempt to change that. So fine. She let him have the space. She wasn’t going to chase him.
Which didn’t mean he wasn’t constantly on her mind, the things they’d shared re-living themselves in her mind, way too often. As a petty act of vengeance—known only to herself—she classified him as the most distracting crush she’d had to date, and refused to treat it as more than that. She excelled at channeling her desires in more useful directions.
Like today. Passing one of the staff workout areas, she saw Caleb, the Circus’s “strongman,” frowning at a formidable set of weights. Caleb was extraordinarily strong for a human. Rather than have him demonstrate it in the expected ways, Yvette used his strength and perpetually somber manner in the clown skits, in ways that made him an audience favorite.
For instance, in one of them, he leaned against the Big Top’s center pole, looking startled when the whole thing began to shake. As he valiantly tried to steady it, the clowns piled on him to help. But when an errant breeze took his cap, spinning it onto a platform far above him, Caleb forgot why the tent had started to shake and started up after it.
Since the implication was that he would bring the tent down by climbing the pole, the clowns used elaborate sign language to stop him, three hanging onto his arms. As he tried to dislodge them, one let out a shrill whistle, making everyone freeze. He pantomimed a comical series of gestures. When Caleb finally understood, he braced himself stoically as one clown after another climbed onto his shoulders. They came up one clown short, all of them making frustrated motions.
That was when Jojo ran out, one of the Circus poodles. He climbed nimbly up the tower of bodies, jumped and grabbed the hat. As he did, he launched himself into the air, inciting audience cries of alarm. Jojo was of course caught in the capable hands of the dog handler, standing in the right spot for that purpose.
The dragons left the poodles alone, no matter how much they looked like sheep, because Yvette had mandated it in her usual warm and fuzzy way. “They’re the most reliable performers I have,” she informed her staff. “And the cheapest. I’ll sacrifice one of you to the dragons first.”
The silent act for Caleb wasn’t an act. He could speak, but he rarely did unprompted. His communications were mostly reserved courtesies. Ruth detected a deep turbulence in him, one that inspired a desire to soothe. But he kept everything behind a wall, unavailable.
Everyone in the Circus had a story, and protocol said you waited for them to share when they desired to do so. Charlie had noted many were here specifically so they didn’t have to.
“Does anyone know them all?” Ruth had asked her.
“Yvette, of course. No one comes into the Circus without her knowing their backstory.”