Nothing makes me smile like hitting all the big seven in one night. And that is why thisCirque Maléfiquewill never get old. It tickles me in all the right places. And I do love a good tickle.
Itake a deep breath and place my hand in his, cementing my decision. He gives me a dazzling smile and walks me to the edge of the stage. I stand there looking down, wondering how the heck I’m going to jump that far without breaking an ankle, when Luke jumps down like a jungle cat, turns, and raises his hands toward me.
I lean down and put mine on his shoulders. He grabs my waist and swings me down in one graceful movement, setting me on my feet like I am themon petit chouhe calls me. Luke wraps his hand around the back of my neck and steers me down a back aisle out of the tent.
He stops to grab a long leather coat from a costume rack at a back door and slips it on. He is incredible in his leather pants and matching coat, the harness over his bare chest peeking out.
He places his hand back on my neck and leads us out into a rear hallway, where we pop out a set of metal double doors into the balmy night air. Several giant murdered-out Cadillac Escalades are idling at the curb, followed by a rose gold car. The engine revs and the alluring woman from earlier waves.
“What is that gorgeous car?”
“Audi,” Luke mutters, steering me toward the end of the motorcade. Just then, a sleek red sports car pulls in behind her. It has a long nose and is undeniably sexy. One of the strongmen gets out and tosses Luke the keys. He snatches them out of the air and says, “Grazie.”
I wonder how many languages he speaks as I’m reasonably sure that was Italian. The strongman heads over to one of the SUVs as Luke walks to the latest arrival and opens the passenger door for me. I slide into the low seat, scared to touch anything in the interior. It smells like money, and the red and black leather feels like butter. It utterly suits him.
Luke leans in and fastens my seatbelt for me, which I find endearing. He closes my door and rounds the car, shooting me a wink through the windshield and then slides into his side. The car appears to be an extension of him, like it was custom made to fit his long form. The engine purrs to life as he starts it.
“What’s this one?”
He flashes me an excited grin and says, “Maybach.”
“I’ve never seen a car like this before.”
“One of a kind, like you,” he replies with a smile. His playful side is charming.
Despite not being a car aficionado, I can't help but be impressed with the engine's throaty purr as he revs it. As the convoy takes off through the night, I watch Luke’s face flash in and out of shadow and light as we pass streetlights and businesses. He fiddles with some buttons until music swells around us through the incredible sound system.
“Take your hair down.”
I reach up and find the clip securing the top knot and unwind the length, finger combing out the braid, so it is back to its original high pony. I wonder at his accent. It’s subtle, but I’m fairly sure it’s French.
“I said down,” he drawls, deathly quiet.
Oh, shit. This tone of voice packs an even more dramatic impact. I pull out the hair tie straightaway, eager to please him, and finger comb it again, hoping it looks okay. I gently massage the roots in relief at it being down and to add some volume to the crown.
It falls around me like a cape of soft waves from having it braided. Being able to run my hands through it is one perk of straightening it. When my hair is in its usual curly state, it’s impossible to do so.
“Good girl,” he growls, and I shift in the seat, the seam in the crotch of my jeans suddenly a little too tight for comfort, yet not tight enough.
He reaches over and rests his large hand on my knee, warm even through the denim. I’m quickly developing an addiction to this phrase and the heady feeling it triggers. Sure, I like some spice in my fiction, but I’d never experienced anything in real life. I can see the draw to this praise kink I’ve read about.
I turn and stare out the window, at the city whizzing by, when I feel his hand trail up my leg. He reaches the top and tucks his pinky into the crease of my leg. I’m worried he will feel the heat radiating out from my core like a nuclear meltdown, but swallow down my nerves.
He idly plays with the strings of my fishnets with his index finger, hand over one of the higher up tears in my jeans. His fingertip feels hot compared to the cool night air.
“I like your eyes on me,” Luke says softly, sounding oddly vulnerable, so I turn and face him once again. He gives my leg a squeeze, and it’s all I can do to not grind against his hand.
“Better,” he says with a smile, after I’m facing him again, without his eyes ever leaving the road.
I take in his profile, the outline sharp against the night. Light and shadow chasing each other over his face. He is beautiful, lounging like a big cat in the driver’s seat, one hand carelessly draped over the wheel. Although he is in repose, I again sense he is ready to spring into action like a panther, a restlessness ever present under the relaxed facade.
Soon the caravan turns into a parking garage, driving down level after level until I feel like we are being swallowed up by the earth itself. The cars stop while an enormous gate retracts to allow us into a separate private parking area.
Luke pulls the car into a space and says, “Wait.” He gets out, walks around to my door, opens it, and holds out a hand to me. Pulling me up out of the low seat, he says, “I’ll get you home later. For now, just enjoy.”
The performance crew and a slew of other folks pour out of the caravan and walk toward a bank of elevators. I glance at the SUVs as we pass by. Show business must be really profitable if their vehicles are anything to go by. The value of this small fleet must be astronomical.
The group stands in front of the elevators, and Luke pulls me to his side. Everyone is busy chattering amongst themselves and although I see a few curious glances directed my way, for the most part, my presence is simply accepted.
