Page 92 of Vampire's Choice
“You have one rule to remember tonight.” When Merc spoke against her ear, his voice just added to the impact. “Tell me what it is.”
“Nice to see you. Hope you’ve had a good week.” She rubbed her hips against him. “I wouldn’t presume to know. You tell me.”
“No one touches you. No Master, no Mistress.”
“If you’re there, it won’t be a problem.”
His warning growl didn’t stop her from reaching back to caress his hip. He gripped her wrist, pulling her arm high up against her back. Discomfort bolted through the joint. Unless she wanted it to get worse, she better not move. He slid his hand down her front, into her jeans, cupping her sex. No hesitation or warning, but none was needed. When she arched against him with a hiss and he pushed fingers into her, her cunt had gone slick and wet in the mere seconds it had taken for him to detain her.
“Do you seek to be bound to me, Ruth? Never be rid of me, your Master into eternity? That’s what your third mark does, doesn’t it?”
Her eyes closed. All her rationales about letting it go, pretending it had never been suggested, vanished. It was back in her mind, large and possible and not absurd at all. But it wasn’t her nature to make things easy. “It makes me your Mistress.”
She taunted him with words they both knew she didn’t want to be true. He called her on it. The electric energy sparked from his fingertips, his thumb, exploring her labia and clit. She shuddered against his body, everything inside trembling, her body damp and aching. Tight. When she tilted her head up, she saw him draw in her response, nostrils flaring. A rumble came from his chest. “Keep challenging me, little vampire. I want to punish you. Make you beg for mercy.”
She tried to hit him for the little vampire bullshit, but her free arm had no coordination. Which was what happened when a climax as strong as Caleb’s grip seized her.
“Oh...God…” The reaction was entirely his design, his pace, pulled from her before any part of her could brace against it. She screamed against his palm, dampened it with her tongue, scored it with her fangs. He worked her through the orgasm, but when it ebbed, he wasn’t done. He manipulated that energy and the angle of his touch on her sex, his stroke, the pace, until another gripped her.
His diabolical patience, as if he had all night to do this, only enhanced the torture. When he at last allowed her to be done, she was limp in his hold, his voice in her ear.
“You know who your Master is, Ruth. You already carry my mark. Keep fighting me. It will give me more opportunities to prove it.”
It took forty-five minutes to get dressed and meet Clara. Ten minutes to unscramble her brain, and the rest to make sure if he was going to lurk, she was going to give him an eyeful. His threat lingered on her skin, in her mind, like his touch. She wanted both back, up close and personal, and was happy to challenge him to get it. The disappearing act was getting damned old.
When she rejoined Clara, the fortune teller’s eyes widened. “Wow. I’m torn between saying something like ‘you’re almost wearing that dress’ and ‘you’re wearing the hell out of that dress.’ Charlie knows her stuff.”
“You had key input as well.”
The neckline of the dark red dress was low and draped. Creative underwear pushed her small curves up and together to make that view 3D, rather than a flat glimpse of her sternum. The skirt had a tight tulip bulb fit, a split up the left leg to the waistline. What was beneath—and what wasn’t, since panties weren’t possible—was tantalizingly hinted at by a trio of glittering beaded straps across her upper thigh. A choker with the same sparkling embellishment had a strap that ran vertically down her sternum, between her curves, to disappear under the lowest part of the draped neckline. It attached to the band that cinched in the waist. She’d paired the dress with high heels.
Though she had loved the flowers and ribbons, she took them all out, so her black hair was loose and flowing, giving her a wilder, more sexually dangerous look.
The dress was an invitation any Dom would recognize, if he didn’t know she was a vampire and a top herself. Supposedly.
Merc knew better.
As she and Clara moved toward the Big Top, he was all she could think about. However, once stepping inside, she found other astounding distractions.
Angled mirrors hung over the rings, slender rectangles that turned with the air currents. They reflected light and slices of what was going on below. Other mirrors were anchored panels on the ground inside the rings, creating informal divisions between stations and groups of players.
The pixie Fae flitted everywhere, like fireflies on a summer night. A flock landed on the back of a bound sub, digging their tiny nails into his flesh before lifting off, right before a whip strike from his Mistress.
Tragar was here, sitting in a stately upright position just outside a ring. Near him, a Master stood beside a woman bound on a metal table, her face and neck covered with a wet towel. When the male stood back and glanced at the dragon, a courteous request, flame swept over the woman, shot from the dragon’s maw. Her skin was glistening as if coated with oil, some type of alcohol buffer, Ruth assumed.
Her Master moved swiftly, dousing her with a wet blanket, but the fire bottom’s ecstatic cry reached Ruth’s sharp ears, even over the music pounding through the speakers, a sultry mix with lots of bass and drums. She suspected it had been put together by the Circus composers who did all the score work for the performances.
Unlike most circuses, where fire was of paramount concern, Yvette had fire protection spells on the tent, so no flame could misbehave.
“Ever seen fire play like that?” Clara asked.
“Never.” Ruth shot her a grin.
The knife throwing wheel was in use. The Circus’s knife performer was a woman, a Mistress who looked pleased with her current “volunteer.” It was Caleb, wearing only a tight pair of black shorts. His presence there worried Ruth a little. He was far heavier than Zanath’s usual assistant, Tink, who stood to the right of the wheel. The slim, pretty male was rubbing his cock through his tights as Caleb’s eyes clung to the motion.
With the wheel rotating, would Zanath be able to accommodate the assumed change in timing from his weight?
Ruth and Clara slid to one of the audience seats to watch. Other people stood closer to the scene, inside the ring, but they had a decent view here.