Sake Bomb (24 page)

And wouldn’t it make sense the one woman he
wanted for his sub was so adamantly trying to prove herself
vanilla? Add to that they didn’t have the
time
a D/s
relationship required and the idea was dead in the water before she
even knew he’d thought it.

“Why are we here, Xander?” Kizzie asked, her
muscles shifting beneath his touch. She leaned into him—with their
proximity, she really had no choice—but sat rigid, her body wary.
Those brown eyes had softened though, looking down at him from the
slight height advantage being perched on his thigh provided. He
stared into their depths far too long, planning things he had no
business planning.

Her clean scent made him rethink having her
nestled so close to his cock.

Equally problematic: she was so far from his
cock.

Kizzie caught a corner of her lower lip
between her teeth and he envied the pearly whites. Close enough to
kiss her—he caressed her chin—just tip her head down a bit and
taste her mouth. He wanted to. Had wanted to the moment he first
spotted her.

She watched him through heavy lids; he
licked his lips.

The lights in the room went down and a spot
shone on the center of the “stage,” breaking the spell.

Xander dropped his hand and swallowed the
lust clogging his throat. Tearing his gaze from hers, he jerked his
chin toward the empty area at the front. “Watch.”

* * * *

T
he soft graze of
his fingers lingered, matching the subtle burn on her throat.
Kizzie was pretty certain Xander was going to kiss her, and 100%
positive she’d do something stupid, like kiss him back. She willed
her pulse to slow, her body to relax.

At the front of the room, a series of
riggers’ hooks dangled from sturdy scaffolding. A bluish spotlight
centered on the area, all else blanketed in darkness. The airy
notes of bamboo flutes eased from the surround sound, creating a
seductive mood.

The door on the wall beside them opened, and
a figure in silky, dark robes emerged, heading for the light
center-stage. A small woman, moving with a fluid grace and
spiraling into the crowd where the darkness swallowed her up.
Moments later, she returned to the front, weaving, robes rippling
like waves lapping the shore.

“The moon,” Xander whispered, voice floating
to her ear thick as syrup. He tugged her a bit closer, the hand at
her waist slid down to rest on her thigh. Kizzie nodded, attention
on both the woman and the heat bleeding through the taffeta
skirt.

The dancer repeated her motions several
times, arms lifting and twisting as she darted in and out of the
light. Blue-black hair flowed behind her when she ran and swayed,
covered her face when she folded with dramatic flair, back bowed
and arms dangling. She lifted again, made a small pirouette, and
then dashed away with the light chasing.

At the far side of the room another spot
came on, warmer in tone and highlighting a man clad in burnished
orange robes. Not quite as free-flowing as Moon’s, his were more of
the Shaolin warrior monk variety, wrapped and tucked in an orderly
fashion. Barefoot, he stood tall with a presence that radiated
power, muscled arms crossed at his chest. He eyed Moon with a
fierce intensity.

Kizzie made the connection—the sun.

Great
.

The Mistress was out there somewhere with a
salted bomb, women with In-Yo tattoos were dropping like flies, and
she and Xander were hard at work watching interpretive dance at a
costumed freak-fest! Rivaled the efficiency of any other government
sanctioned op...

Kizzie swallowed her groan and observed the
crowd. The limited light made it impossible to make out faces, not
that she knew who to look for.

Still, she sifted through shapes to keep
busy, or at least be on her guard. Sitting at the front of a room
with an audience at your back wasn’t a smart tactical
position—that’s just day one stuff. Where was her head that she’d
blindly followed Xander to the
worst
seating arrangement in
the place?

He patted her thigh. “The wall’s at your
back, I’m right beside you, Phil’s close by. You’re as safe as you
can be in a crowd, Princess. Relax for me and watch the show.”

It unnerved her that he could read her, and
Kizzie didn’t like being unnerved as a general rule. Instead of
defying him, she focused on the performance art. Even field agents
needed a culture break every now and then, she supposed.

Sun dropped his arms to his sides, the
grandest motion he’d made all evening, and Moon continued her slow
dance to the flutes, edging closer. Sun reached out; she backed
away, wagging a teasing forefinger: Can’t catch me.

She had no discernible pattern—into the
crowd, off to one corner of the stage, always just out of Sun’s
reach and always moving. The spotlight either chased or she dodged
it, never getting caught in the bright ray for too long.

Sun moved as well, a distinct course carved
with determined steps. Two strides toward the center of the stage
and he’d stop, waiting patiently for Moon to come near enough to
capture. His route brought him closer to the hooks, beneath which
sat several coils of crimson rope.

The orange and blue spots briefly crossed
paths, creating a soft, purplish light before separating again. A
couple turns later, Sun stooped to retrieve a red pile. When he
resumed his height, he pushed his arm through the ring of cords and
shifted it to rest on his shoulder. Moon danced behind him, so lost
in her freedom she didn’t realize how dangerously close she’d come
to being in his grasp.

Kizzie’s rapt attention stayed on the two
celestial beings, but she was still aware of Xander’s hand
tightening on her leg. She adjusted her hips to stay on his thigh,
and his muscles bunched beneath her. She shifted again. Christ, she
was probably crushing the hell out of his leg.

Wait… Did he just…groan?

Moon swirled, dipped forward and tossed her
long mane, arms floating up and out. Her robes shimmered, satiny
blues appearing deep navy in places where the shadows hadn’t been
chased off by the light. She stood and backed up…a little
more…more…directly into Sun.

Her hand pressed to her chest, mouth and
eyes rounded in surprise. Sun wrapped his arms around her.

Trapped.

Moon dipped her chin to her chest.

Kizzie swallowed, much too aware of Xander’s
large body beneath her…beside her…around her. His hand was under
the taffeta now, strong fingers draped over her inner thigh. When
that had happened she didn’t know, but she forced herself not to
focus on it.

The couple stayed in their embrace a long
moment, Sun whispering words only Moon could hear and Moon nodding.
Then he positioned her beneath the hooks, facing the audience. He
made an orderly braid of her loose hair then, grip close to her
crown, he guided her head in a sensual roll and yanked back hard.
Her face shot up, loose bangs framing rounded cheeks. Two more soft
tugs and Moon’s eyes closed.

Sun continued whispering, hands snaking over
Moon’s shoulders. Palms smoothed down her breasts, fondling the
mounds a long while before continuing to her belly. Fingers hooked
in the material, Sun ripped the plackets apart exposing soft
porcelain skin. He tossed the robes away, then returned to admire
his woman’s nude form.

Tattoos lined Moon’s side, the ink
stretching from ribcage to ankle. Kizzie was too far to make out
the shapes, but on her own leg Xander’s thumb stroked back and
forth lazily, skin to skin, the relaxing motion etching in a
permanent mark of its own. It tickled in all the right ways. Such a
slight movement covering little more than an inch of her—a very
intimate inch, mind—but it felt like Xander’s hands were everywhere
on her body.

Kizzie exhaled the breath she’d been
holding, unclenched her jaw to drag another in through her
mouth.

Sun finished his survey of Moon. With
practiced ease, he dropped the rope from his shoulder and caught it
in his hand.

Then it began.

Reverently, he wrapped a doubled length of
rope around Moon’s chest, right above her breasts. It disappeared
behind her back where he fiddled with it before pulling it forward
again, this time taking it along her ribcage, beneath the rounded
peaks. He pulled tight, and Moon pushed her chest forward. Her head
fell back, and Sun was there. He spoke in her ear as he made more
adjustments to the rope. Tweaked her nipples and then slid his hand
down over her hip, a passionate line of red following in his
wake.

They continued in this vein, a sensual dance
between Sun and Moon, the rope acting to bind her. Bind them. Every
movement from Sun was methodical and focused; each response from
Moon a reflection of her master’s skill.

Sun gripped a hook overhead, pulled it down
until he’d secured it to the many ties at Moon’s back. Only then
did he step away to work the black rope that would lift Moon into
the air. He hoisted her easily, raising her a good foot or so from
the ground.

Arms cinched tightly behind her and crimson
cords going every which way around her body, Moon dangled from the
single hook, almost parallel to the floor and completely helpless.
Her legs weren’t fully bound yet, and they moved freely as she
swayed from the energy in the lines.

The thicker black cord secured to a post,
Sun returned to his sub. He spun her in a circle, let her body
twirl a few moments, and then eased her to a stop. Another length
of red rope in his hand, he captured one leg, bent it at the knee,
tucking her heel beneath the slight swell of her ass. Several
stylistic loops and ties later, the woman’s leg was immobile, the
rope tight enough against her pale skin to force the flesh through
the gaps. He tied the other ankle to the hook.

More rope was added, starting at Moon’s
chest and then looping her neck before interlacing the suspension
ropes. There didn’t appear to be a specific pattern, but the lines
were clean and the angles held a kind of beauty Kizzie hadn’t seen
before. She watched every movement Sun made, adding jute and knots
and then displaying Moon to the crowd.

Still, his focus stayed on his sub.

The music shifted, drums joining the flutes
and both rising in intensity. The rhythm became a visceral pound in
Kizzie’s chest. She didn’t realize how much tension was in her
belly until Sun reached for one of the suspension ropes. Her eyes
widened, working to trace the red thread from hook to body.
Pointless. Moon dangled there, in a zone and apparently none too
worried with what the man behind her was up to.

Kizzie leaned forward a hair. Xander’s hand
tightened on her thigh; two quick squeezes and his thumb resumed
the light stroking.

Sun let go of one rope and selected another.
He reconsidered, walked a tight circle around Moon—whose eyes
fluttered and head lolled as though in a trance—then reached into a
fold of his robes and emerged with a short, curved blade.

Kizzie’s heart beat in her throat, brows
raised high. He didn’t intend to
cut
the ropes, did he? This
had face plant written all over it! She gripped Xander’s knee, her
other hand found his opposite thigh.

Sun knuckled Moon’s cheek, brushing back the
bangs to murmur in her ear. No visible response from her, and he
returned to the ropes, brandishing the knife. It was relatively
small, the thick grip swallowed by his palm, but the blade curved
back so far it looked like a half circle. It glinted in the
spotlight a brief second—

—then slashed through one of the ropes.

Kizzie gasped—along with the
audience—fingers tightening on Xander’s flesh as Moon’s head rushed
downward and then stopped abruptly. Sun twisted Moon again and she
spun unchallenged. Another cut and her head dropped more, stopped
just shy of smacking the floor.

Sun added a rope here, cut one there, lifted
and adjusted the main rope. A steady give and take with Moon
completely at his mercy and too calm to be concerned. Kizzie
watched it happen over and over again. Each time she knew full well
what was coming, had faith Sun wouldn’t let Moon crash but couldn’t
stop her own belly from falling.

Moon dangled upside down by what appeared to
be the single rope tied around the ankle of her extended leg.

One thin red line of security.

One thin red line of trust.

The spot shone on her beautiful form.
Burgundy slashes on smooth porcelain marked where the rope had
hugged her body; bright red lines where the rope remained. Her head
was only inches from the ground, arms still behind her and her
other leg still bent and bound. Her eyes were closed, face burning
from the blood’s bend to gravity.

Drums reached their zenith and then died
abruptly, the flutes settled to their original tempo—slow and
magical.

With great care, Sun made one more tie, this
one at the harness around Moon’s breasts. Knot secured, he took the
measures to bring her parallel to the floor once more. More ties
and then he moved away to work the rigging rope.

Once Moon was safely on the ground, Sun
freed her legs and then gathered the woman into his arms. She
leaned against his chest, silent tears streaming down her cheeks.
Sun brushed them away, murmuring a smile onto her face.

After a few moments he stood and helped his
sub until she was steady on her feet. A hand on the rope that still
bound her arms, Sun watched her bow as the crowd cheered—a noise
like thunder.

Kizzie was too focused on the rope marks
veining the woman’s skin to clap. The whole thing was…intense. Not
what she expected at all. Hell, she had no idea to expect anything,
but definitely not this, and certainly not to be so enthralled by
it.

Absolute trust. Who knew?

Obviously they’d been together a long time,
Sun and Moon, but there wasn’t a moment of concern Kizzie could
see. It was beautiful, really. It was—