I’d said he pantomimed sex before, but I’d been wrong, because he was doing it now.
He thrust against the back of my body, with his hands trapping mine against the chair, and his body curved over me. With my legs together he wasn’t brushing up against anything that Requiem had hurt. With my legs together, the angle would have been wrong if we were actually trying to have sex, but that wasn’t what the show was about. As he’d said hours ago, it was an illusion, the illusion that they could have him. The illusion that he could bring someone up on stage and have them in front of everyone else.
The cloth of the G-string was satiny, but what lay inside that satin was hard and firm, and all I could think of was earlier in my office. Of the feel of him inside of me for real. Of him pushed inside me as far as he could go, of him sliding in and out of my body, of him stroking over that spot inside me, of the feel of him so careful, so delicate, so very strong, as he moved inside me. My imagination was suddenly not my friend. Because between one breath and another, the memory overwhelmed me, and suddenly that heavy warmth spread from low in my body to spill over my skin in a dance of goosebumps. I spasmed against the chair, against Nathaniel’s body. His body was still bent over mine, and the weight of him rode me as I spasmed, as I orgasmed. It was a small one, no screaming, no clawing, just that helpless spasming, and not much of that by my standards.
He whispered against the side of my face, his breath almost hot. “Anita…”
But the next moment there was movement behind us, I felt it like a disturbance of air, and there was a sound I didn’t know, and a sharp sound of something heavy hitting flesh. Nathaniel’s body reacted to the blow, spasmed, almost like mine had. A second blow came, and this time words, Jean-Claude’s voice, “Bad cat, very bad cat. Away from her bad cat, away from her.”
Nathaniel’s body responded to every blow, almost like it was a miniature orgasm. His body tightened around me, as if the feel of my body next to him while Jean-Claude whipped him was something he didn’t want to lose. But Jean-Claude drove him off, with a joking voice, and Nathaniel made sure my skirt was in place before he let Jean-Claude drive him across the stage.
I was left holding the chair, so weak-kneed I didn’t trust myself to move yet. Jean-Claude had a small many-tailed whip in his hand. Nathaniel crouched and crawled across the stage, and Jean-Claude beat him. It was like an odd version of an old-time lion tamer act, except the chair served an entirely different purpose.
“You are a very bad kitty-cat, very bad. How do we punish our bad kitty?” For a second I thought he was asking me, but he wasn’t. The women around the stage started to chant, “Tie him up, tie him up, tie him up.”
Jean-Claude smiled, as if that had never occurred to him, but what a good idea it was. At a gesture from him, chains descended from the ceiling. I hadn’t noticed them in the welter of lights and cables. Oh, hell, I hadn’t even looked up.
Two bare-chested waiters, wearing only leather pants, came up on stage and dragged Nathaniel to his feet. They chained his arms spread wide, wrists above his head.
Jean-Claude came to me, walking so that his hips rolled more than they should have. He touched my arm and whispered, with a smile that did not match the words, “Are you alright, ma petite?”
I nodded and whispered, because I knew he’d hear me. “Flashback.”
“Not as strong as those that our Asher can give.”
I shook my head.
“Interesting,” he said, “are you well enough to finish this show?”
“I promised,” I said.
His smile widened, and his voice was suddenly that room-filling, jolly sound, “Now, you may help us punish our bad kitty. You may make him pay for taking liberties.” I got a shadow of what he was doing to the audience. When he said “punish,” it was a sharp pull on the body; “bad kitty” made you think of very naughty things; “pay,” and more money hit the stage; “liberties” had a lascivious lilt to it that made the audience do that nervous giggle, like what they were thinking was worse than anything they’d seen tonight.
I just nodded and let him take my hand. That one touch was both a mistake and a help. It made me feel less shaky, but it also opened me to him more. Touching just his hand was more distracting than touching so much more on most men. He led me a little dazed across the stage, until we were standing behind Nathaniel, facing the bareness of the back of his body.
Jean-Claude let go of my hand and went to him. He touched the bare back. “You may hit him here”—his hand slid down Nathaniel’s back to his buttocks—“or here. He has been a bad kitty, but we don’t want to damage him. He is far too pretty for that.”
The audience agreed with him, most of them.
Jean-Claude handed the whip toward me. “I don’t know how to use a whip.”
“First, it is a what, my sweets?”
Most of the women yelled, “Flogger!”
“And second, it would be my pleasure,” and that one word slithered over my skin, and apparently over the other women as well, for they squealed, “to show you just how it works.” And every word seemed darker, more suggestive than it should have.
He tried to show me first by simply using it on Nathaniel. He made the heavy leather tails blur and blossom against Nathaniel’s skin. Nathaniel reacted to every blow with a spasm that went from his fingers to his toes and everything in between. I could see enough of his face to know that those closed eyes and parted lips weren’t from pain. Jean-Claude whipped Nathaniel, or I guess flogged him, until his skin was pink in places and the stage was littered with money at their feet.
He leaned close to Nathaniel’s face, said something, and Nathaniel said something back, then Jean-Claude turned to me. He held the flogger out again. “He’s such a bad kitty.”
I shook my head.
“Shall I show her how it’s done?” he asked the audience, and they yelled louder, and I wished I’d just taken the damn thing and tried, but too late now.
He put the flogger in my hand and pressed his body against the back of mine, with one arm around my waist and the other hand on the hand that held the flogger. It was the way lecherous men stand when they try to teach you how to golf or swing a bat. He swung my arm back and tried to make me give that sharp crack against Nathaniel’s body, but it wasn’t sharp, it was sort of flabby.
“You must relax and let me do the work, ma petite.” Loud enough for the audience, he said, ”Relax, my sweet, relax, and we will show him pain, and perhaps more.“ The ”perhaps more“ was like a whisper in the dark against your skin.
I let out the breath I was holding and tried to relax, never my best thing. But I also knew that if I didn’t relax, this part of the show would last longer, and I wanted this part over. It was sort of demeaning, like I was a girl who couldn’t swing at the ball without help. Okay, maybe I didn’t know how to use a flogger, but I really didn’t need this much help.
We got a couple of good blows in, enough to make Nathaniel shiver in his chains. Then Jean-Claude stepped away from me, leaving the flogger in my hand. “Give the bad kitty what he wants.” And what he said was not what it felt like in my head, or on my skin, or deeper in my body. The women around the stage and farther into the room made small noises. Shit.
I threw the flogger at Jean-Claude the way you’d throw a baseball bat when you want someone to catch it. He caught it by the handle like I’d known he would. “I know what the bad kitty wants, and I am going to give it to him.”
The women made “ooh” and “aah” sounds, and several said, “you go girl!” One yelled, “lucky bitch!” I walked to Nathaniel and stood in front of him. His eyes were only partly focused. He’d liked the flogger. I’d known sort of academically that he would, but seeing it in his face was different. It bothered me, and I wasn’t sure if the entire thing bothered me, or if what bothered me was that this was something he liked this much, and I wasn’t sure I was willing to do it for him. I let the doubts go, because what I was about to do was something I cou
ld do, and wanted to do, and had promised to do.
I looked up at the chains and just wasn’t familiar enough with the concept to know, so I asked Jean-Claude, “Does this swivel?”
“It can,” he said, “why?”
“Because they’ll want to see his face.”
The audience liked that, and they shouted more encouragement, but I didn’t need it. I don’t know why, but suddenly I was calm. I wasn’t bothered that we were in public, or that we were on stage. It was very peaceful inside my head, very calm.
The waiters turned Nathaniel around so that he faced the audience. His eyes had gone back to almost normal. I could see his face reflected in the distant glass of the far wall. I’d never really noticed how much shiny surface there was all around until that moment, when I could watch Nathaniel’s face and mine.
I grabbed his ponytail, grabbed it and wound it around my hand, tight, tight enough that he gasped. I think the audience screamed, but the sound of them was receding, pulling away, and leaving me in a well of silence, where the only noises were Nathaniel’s breath and mine.
I pressed my body along his back, tucked him tight against me, so that his ass pushed against my stomach and my breasts pressed into his back. I kept my hold on his hair, and used it like a handle to keep him from moving, pulling harder if he shifted his weight, until he hung suspended, afraid to move, eager not to. I had to go on tiptoe to get the angle I wanted for the smooth expanse of his neck. I put my free hand around his upper chest, holding us tight together. I used his hair to stretch his neck to one side, to give me as much of that smooth, delicate flesh as possible. His breathing had already changed, already sped in anticipation.
I licked his neck, a quick flick of tongue, and he gasped for me. I licked harder, and he shuddered. I kissed his neck, and he made a small noise, not of protest, but of eagerness. I opened my mouth wide, and let my breath touch hot upon his skin, and then I bit him. No more foreplay, no more games. I bit him.
He struggled against me, he couldn’t help it, and I used his hair and my arm around his body, and the press of my body against his back, to hold him in place. I felt his skin under my teeth, felt the meat of him in my mouth, and underneath that was that frantic beating pulse. I could taste his life underneath his skin, taste it, and know that it was mine, mine if I wanted it. Mine because part of him wanted to give it up to me.
The sensation of that much meat in my mouth was almost overwhelming, and I fought not to bite down and take away all that flesh. I fought not to take everything that he offered in that moment. I bit down, held him as he struggled, held him as his wrists jerked on the chains, as his body began to spasm, and still I sank my teeth into his flesh. The first sweet taste of blood like salt and metal and something so much sweeter filled my mouth, and I felt him convulse against me, heard him cry out. And I fed, I fed the ardeur, and hadn’t even known it was coming. I fed on his blood, fed on the meat of his body, fed on his sex, fed on all of him. I fed, and when I looked up from his body, I saw my eyes reflected in the mirror. Black light, with that flash of brown light, my eyes drowned with power.
I let go with my mouth, abruptly, and saw blood on my mouth, on my chin, shining in the lights. I let go of his hair, his body, and stepped back, and I knew that my eyes were still full of that dark light. I was afraid for a second what I’d done, but found that other than a perfect set of my own teeth marks, set like a bloody necklace on his skin, I hadn’t bitten through to his pulse. I hadn’t hurt him, not more than he wanted to be hurt.
Jean-Claude was standing there, in front of me. “Ma petite,” he whispered, “ma petite.” But I knew what he was thinking, I knew what he wanted. Bound closer than we’d ever been, it cut both ways. He mouthed something about how did I feel, was I alright, but that wasn’t what he was thinking. Not really.
“Say what you want,” I said, “say what you want.”
He stopped trying to be careful, and said, simply, “Kiss me.”
I went to him, and he kissed me. He kissed me as if he were tasting me, as if with tongue and teeth and lips he could drain from me every last drop of Nathaniel’s blood and the taste of me along with it. He licked the roof of my mouth and drew a sound from low in my throat. His eyes had bled to midnight blue light, as if the darkest of water held starlight in it.
I caught the glint of my own eyes, and they were still full of light, blind with the darkness of it, except it wasn’t blind, it was anything but. It was like being hyperaware of everything, anything. I knew suddenly that as long as the light lasted, that every sense would be heightened. I remembered thinking in the cemetery that to make love like this would either be the most wondrous thing ever, or drive you mad. Staring up into Jean-Claude’s drowning blue eyes, I was willing to bet on wondrous.
“We must see to Nathaniel first,” he said, but his voice was hoarse and thick with need.
I nodded. “Yes, Nathaniel first.”
“And then?” he asked.
“Say what you mean,” I said, and my voice wasn’t as hoarse as his, but it didn’t sound exactly like me either.
“And then there is a couch in my office,” he said.
“I was thinking the desk,” I said.
He looked at me, and even with those drowning eyes, the look was very male. “Either will do for me, but it is you who will be on bottom, so it is your choice.”
“I’ll be on bottom?” I made it a question.
He nodded. “Yes.”
“Why?” I asked.
“Because that is what I want.”
“Okay,” I said.
44
« ^ »
Nathaniel was done for the night, there would be no shapeshifting. He was barely conscious in that after great sex kind of way. A few of the customers complained, but not many. Most of them felt that they’d had a show worth the price of admission. We got Nathaniel settled in what the strippers called the quiet room. It had an oversized couch, blankets, low lights, and was just what the name implied, a quiet room, where you could either sleep or get your shit together when things went odd. There were smaller rooms where you could pay to have a private dance, but this wasn’t one of them. This was more a room for crashing when you were tired or had to pull a surprise double shift.
I stroked Nathaniel’s hair, and asked him, “Are you alright?”
He’d opened his eyes just barely and smiled up at me. I’d never seen his face so content. “Yes, very, yes.”
I told him to enjoy the afterglow, and I put Requiem on the door, because Nathaniel was mine to take care of, and I planned on being busy for awhile.
My eyes had bled back to normal by the time I walked down the hallway toward Jean-Claude’s office. He stopped in the hallway and called after me, “Where are you going, ma petite?”
I paused at the door and looked at him. “To your office.”
“Your mood is cooler now, and the power has left you.” He was trying to be utterly neutral, and failing just a bit.
I opened the door still looking at him. “Come into the office, Jean-Claude, and lock the door.” I didn’t wait to see what he’d do, I went through the door, leaving it open behind me. I went to the desk and hopped up on it. I could have tried for subtle, but it was late, and I didn’t feel the least bit subtle. I put my boots up on the desk, my legs apart, and let the skirt ride up as far as it wanted to go. It was outrageously slutty, but the look on his face as he came through the door made me glad I’d done it.
He leaned against the door and locked it, and was unbuttoning his jacket as he walked across the floor. I pulled off the leather jacket and threw it to the floor. His jacket was on the floor, the fluffy white cravat undone so that his upper neck showed pale. I slipped the shoulder holster off my arms but only had the belt partly undone, when he pulled the shirt over his head, and was naked from the waist up. I finished the belt, but he was at the desk before I got it off, slipping the shoulder holster free and setting gun and all beside me on the big black lacquer desk.
I went to my knees on his desk and fell upon the silken muscle and lines of his chest with hands and fingers and mouth. I licked the cross-shaped burn scar. I drew first one nipple and then the other into my mouth. Rolled them with my tongue, sucked them. Used my hands to mound the flesh of his chest, so I could take more of his nipple into my mouth, more of his breast. Until I could lock my mouth around as much as would fill it, and bit down until he cried out and his hands found my face, drew me away from his body, and to his mouth.
We kissed as we had on stage, as if we were exploring every inch with tongue, lips, teeth. He drew back from the kiss, and his eyes had bled to blue. Mine were still my own, but I didn’t care. His hands found my shirt, and he pulled it over my head and bent over me, kissing down the line of my neck, my shoulder, and mounds of my breasts where they spilled up from the black lace bra. He stuck his hands inside my bra and lifted my breasts out so they rested on the underwire, like it was a black frame for the pale mounds of my breasts.
He went to his knees and pulled me to the edge of the desk so he could run his tongue over my breasts. Flicking against my nipples, quick, and light, and wet, until I made small noises. He locked his mouth around my breast and drew as much of my breast as he could between his fangs without nicking me. He sucked, hard and harder, rolling his tongue along my nipple and drawing harder on my breast until he stretched me out in a line that felt so good, but I could feel how careful he was being. It wasn’t the first time he’d played with me like this, but it was the first time that I’d known that this was only the beginning of what he wanted. It wasn’t like telepathy, or a picture in my head, I just knew. I knew what he wanted to do. What he was fighting not to do.
“Bleed me,” I said.
He rolled his eyes up to me, so he could see my face.
“Bleed me, I know how long you’ve wanted to do that now. How careful you’ve been.”
He stopped and released my breast slowly, carefully. He said, “Ma petite, you are drunk with the new powers, but tomorrow night, you will not be.”
Anita Blake 12 - Incubus Dreams Page 47