Firebird (22 page)

“Please, Sir! Please let me come.”

He leaned over her, his breath in her hair. “You want to come, girl?”

“Yes,” she begged. “Please, yes!”

“And who makes you come? Who do you belong to?”

“You! I belong to you!”

“I love you, Prosper,” he whispered just before he bit down on her earlobe. “Come for me.”

He drove into her harder, drove her against the bed so she felt captured. Something inside her broke loose and overran its bounds. Gushing, hot, uncontrollable pleasure. Unbelievable, bountiful riches filling her, satisfying her. Love like an avalanche.
Prosperity
. When her orgasm finally left her, he stayed inside her, connected to her. She cried—not from fear, at last, but from joy.

Chapter Seventeen

It was the night before the
Firebird
premiere. Prosper thought the final run-through had gone exceedingly well. Lawrence had clapped Jackson on the back and issued prolific praise before turning to Prosper and hugging her.

“I knew you could do it all along!”

It really was a stunning production. The set was gorgeous, Kostchei’s garden rendered in rich colors. The whimsical, bizarre costumes were spectacular, and the dancers in them were fully invested in making the groundbreaking production a success. When Prosper put on her costume, tears welled in her eyes. She looked in the mirror and felt herself become the Firebird. It was inside her now, the fire, the ability. She thought she could take on the entire world, wave her red-orange tail feathers, and set any catastrophe back to rights.

After the run-through, Jackson had taken her to dinner. She’d smiled and laughed with him until her jaws ached. He was bursting with excitement and well-deserved pride. They talked about
Firebird
and then about Chicago. Prosper had been invited to join the company of Jackson’s friend Kurt.

They had taken a weekend trip to meet the other dancers and tour the small facility. Prosper felt immediately at home. The dancers were friendly and enthusiastic, and there were no principals, no soloists, no corps. Every dancer was just a dancer. They all participated and contributed according to their abilities and strengths. Some of them were involved in choreography and even costuming and production design. They were all full of pride for what they’d built. Because of that, their company was finding success and expanding. Prosper was overjoyed when they extended the invitation for her to join. There would be a learning curve, but she knew she could do it. Jackson assured her she was going to knock them dead.

But better than that, better than joining this new, exciting company, Prosper was going to be in Chicago with Jackson. “No strings attached” had, at some point, changed into “you’re coming with me.” She would have followed him anywhere, even to Kostchei’s evil kingdom. To follow him to the thriving dance world of Chicago was icing on the cake.

She would dance
Firebird
until mid-April, and then she and Jackson were going to leave New York. She was actually relieved to be rid of the big city. Jackson had questioned her a long time to be sure she really felt that way. The truth was, she’d never been comfortable in New York. She was looking forward to meeting Jackson’s family and friends and setting up a home with him. She was looking forward to life in his arms.

After dinner Jackson took her home, still brimming with energy. She could tell from the look in his eyes that something fun was coming. He took her upstairs and told her to strip and wait for him. He returned a few moments later with a wardrobe bag. He opened it, and Prosper gasped.

“Jackson! You will get in so much trouble. Oh my God!”

He held her Firebird costume in his hands. Its gaudy, showy sequins, rubies, and feathers looked wildly out of place in Jackson’s white bedroom, a shocking explosion of color. The strange juxtaposition of stage and home unbalanced her. Prosper shook her head, half-scandalized, half-awestruck.

“I can’t believe you took it. Maureen will kill you.”

“Maureen will never know.” He grinned at her. “Put it on.”

Prosper laughed, feeling daring and naughty. While she pulled it on, Jackson stripped.

“Go. Put your hands on the wall,” he told her.

She was excited. Blood thrummed in her veins. Jackson was rooting through his drawer of implements and came up with a bright red riding crop. She’d never seen that before! She turned back to the wall, hyperaware of every sensation: the itchiness of the costume against her bare skin, the soft tickling of the feathers that lined her tutu. My God, she was going to cream all over the gusset, and Maureen would know what a slut she was. She looked back over her shoulder to see Jackson smiling at her.

“I’ve got you. A Firebird, trapped right here in my house.”

She giggled. “You’ve had me for a long time now, and you know it.”

“Mouthy little critter.” He snapped the back of her thigh with the crop. She squeaked and shifted from foot to foot.

“Nipples against the wall. Knees too.”

She pressed herself forward with a moan. The metallic thread inside the cups of the bodice scratched her sensitive nipples. She looked back at Jackson.

“You’ll get in so much trouble if this gets damaged.”

“No. You will. Because I’ll blame it on you.”

“I’m serious, Jackson! You know how Maureen is about the costumes! At least…at least…” She eyed his bulging erection and swallowed. “Just please don’t get any cum on it.”

“Hush, little bird. Enough chirping.” The next flick of the crop caught her under her left ass cheek and left a strip of hot fire. He tapped her ass with it and pulled her away from the wall.

“Bend over. Grab your ankles.”

She did as he asked, folding her body over carefully, cringing when the costume pulled tight between her legs, wedging into her pussy. She felt the feathers in the front tickling her shins while the feathers in the back must have been sticking straight up in the air. He delivered a few more swishing strokes, hitting her on the outside of her ass cheeks and the insides of her thighs. She knew he would be careful not to mark her. Well, not too badly, anyway.

“Ouch. Ouch!” She gritted her teeth and held her ankles hard. “Owww…oh!” Each smack was sharp, liquid pain spreading out from the point of contact. Her clit ached and throbbed more and more the longer he went on. God, Maureen would kill her for the mess she was making of the costume’s nylon panties…but
oh…ohhhhh…

“Hm,” Jackson said. “You look kind of like a turkey with your feathers sticking up like that in the back.” Prosper giggled. He came closer, stood behind her, and poked her through the material of the gusset with his erection. “Or maybe a pea
cock
.”

His randy prodding was about to push her off balance. “I thought only males had the fancy feathers.”

“Silence, turkey girl,” he said with another slice of the crop against her outer thigh. She yelped and finally lost her balance. They went down in a tumble of stiff tulle, rhinestones, and feathers. They laughed and then both noticed at the same time the lone red-orange feather wafting down to the floor.

“You are so dead,” Prosper whispered.

Jackson turned over on top of her and pressed his cock against the material at her opening. “I’m going to cut this part off,” he said, pulling at the stretchy fabric covering her swollen pussy.

Prosper gasped. “No! Don’t you dare!”

“‘No?’ What is this word
no
I hear on my submissive’s lips? I have to open it up somehow, or I won’t be able to fuck you.”

“Jackson, please.” Her voice rose to a panicked squeal as he twisted the material in his fingers.

“Isn’t there another costume? A backup?”

“No, there’s not!”

“Well, that’s unfortunate.”

Prosper prayed he was teasing. There was nothing more terrifying to a dancer than a damaged costume.

“Okay, girl,” he finally said. “Let’s get this off you.”

She breathed a sigh of relief as he eased the ornate garment off her shoulders and down over her hips. When he finished and tossed it aside, she gazed at him in entreaty.

“Please, Sir, may I hang it up?”

“No, girl, you may not,” he answered, nibbling at her lips. “Now fly over there and fetch me a condom.”

She stood and walked to the bedside table. On the way back she eyed the crumpled costume on the floor.

“No.” At the warning in his voice, she squelched the urge to defy him, and let him pull her back down. As he opened the cellophane and rolled the condom on, he watched her, bemused. “I bet I can make you forget that costume lying there.” He drew one of her nipples into his mouth and rolled it between his teeth before grazing it softly. She cried out and reached for him. “Yes. Pretty sure I can.”

His fingers made slow, maddening circles around her clit, not quite touching it. She arched against him, shivering at the teasing torture. “Ohhhh…oh…”

“Yes,” he murmured against her lips as she closed her eyes and tried to hang on to her sanity. “I think I can make you forget.”

But she’d already forgotten, her mind focused only on his blazing blue eyes, his agile fingers, and the hard cock nudging her pussy lips. She bucked her hips against him, tensing her thighs.

“Please!”

“No, not yet.” He reached over for the costume and wrapped one of the clear elastic shoulder straps around her wrists. He used the other stretchy strap to tether her to the foot of the bed frame.

“No,” she whispered.

“Yes. You keep those hands still. If you break either of those straps, Maureen will take off your head.”

He picked up the feather beside her. He teased the skin of her stomach, her hips. She felt deep relief that after years of being pawed and hauled around by partners, she wasn’t ticklish in the least. This she could endure easily. He teased the inside of her arms, then tickled it down across the tops of her thigh. She smiled at him. He smiled back, a devilish grin, and then spread her legs and lowered his lips to her clit.
Oh my God. No
. Tickling she could endure. But not this. She clenched her arm muscles with the effort it took not to pull, not to flail in her bonds. He ignored her predicament, focused instead on kissing her clit. He drew his tongue against it in soft, erratic touches that were—purposely, she knew—not quite enough. All the wet, warm caresses did was ramp her arousal up another level, from flaring to burning.
Still, be still. The costume!

He reached up and flicked her nipples while he teased her pussy with his mouth. Next level: conflagration. God, she was so hot and wet for him. Her pussy ached to be filled, an ache that grew to an almost unbearable urge. Her arms trembled from the strain of holding still. Her thighs tensed, and her legs kicked, but he gave her no relief. Finally, when she was out of her mind from the hot, teasing pleasure he gave her, he rose over her and released her hands.

She found herself suddenly free but still captured. Her arms locked around him as he impaled her with his cock. She held on to him, breathing in his scent, totally filled by him. The pleasure in her center built, thickened. The intensity was unbearable. His thrusts were urgent, touching the deepest part of her.

“Come now.” He held her tight, and her hands flew out, scrabbled for purchase as the orgasm ripped through her. She felt Jackson come with her, driving into her hard, and she gave herself up to his power. She was vaguely aware of soft velvet and cool rhinestones against her palm. When she returned to her senses, she looked up to find Jackson watching her thoughtfully, twirling the red-orange feather in his hand.

Epilogue

Prosper stood backstage with Blake, but her mind was on Jackson. He was in the audience. She missed him, but she was okay without him. She felt he was right there with her anyway—in the steps her body had memorized, in the fanciful costume that adorned her, sans one feather. Maureen hadn’t noticed, luckily. The feather was safe at home in Jackson’s chest of equipment. A gift from the Firebird to the couple she’d brought together with her magical grace.

Prosper was excited. The moment had finally arrived. It was time to bring Jackson’s vision to life, show his creation to the curious audience who rustled playbills and seat cushions beyond the heavy velvet curtains.

“Nervous?” Blake whispered. His hand reached for hers.

“No, not at all. I’m fine.”

“Don’t turn in—”

“On the lift. I know. Believe me. I won’t.”

Blake laughed. They both stretched, and Prosper flexed her toes. She heard the quiet strains of the introduction begin and watched the curtains for the moment they would slide open. She listened for the musical cue to fly onto the stage and inhabit the role Jackson had choreographed for her. She would do it perfectly for him. Well, as perfectly as she could.

The curtain opened, and the lights blinded her, filling her with the familiar impetus to soar, to perform. The ballet unfolded, lovely and lyrical. She performed for the audience, of course, but more importantly, she performed for him. Every port de bras was an embrace for him, every
glissade
or
pirouette
a love song from her heart.

And when the lift came, she ran to her partner without fear or hesitation holding her back. She felt herself buoyed by hope, soaring with happiness.

Like magic, she flew.