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“The thing is, I want it to be perfect. It has to be perfect.”
“But I’m not perfect.” He shouldn’t nag at her; it was spectacular so far. She’d recently added a bit more texture to his shirt, including a row of mismatched buttons and a feather blue eyelash he’d acquired from his daughter. Strangely, it was nowhere near his eyes.
But that epitomized Valentina’s genius. Even the brushstrokes felt alive. He knew she changed the colors and shapes of them until they communicated exactly what she thought they should. “Look at your poor lonely painting,” he said, indicating the bare spot on the wall.
“It doesn’t look that lonely. It looks happy.” She sidled back to slip her arms around his waist. “Maybe because the bugs haven’t come for the candy.”
“Yet.” He tugged her chin up to give her a kiss. “I suppose I must be extra patient with you now that you’re my wife. Perhaps I’ll lock you in the cage and not let you out until it’s finished.” He’d erected one in their Paris bedroom that was exactly like the Marseille cage, and put it to regular use.
“That doesn’t sound very patient,” she said forlornly.
“For me, it is.”
“What about our honeymoon?”
“Oh, I’d find it a lovely honeymoon. You. Me. The cage.”
She shivered, melting into him. He cupped her face, rubbing behind her ears.
“Do you feel like something’s still missing in me, mon coeur?” he asked softly. “Is that why you haven’t finished?”
She pulled back, shaking her head. “No, oh no, it’s not that. I feel like I have all of you now, every part of you. I love you so much.” She went up on her tiptoes to kiss him, then turned and tilted her head to look at his artistic likeness. “It’s only that, just when I think I’m done, I learn something new about you and I have to make changes. Even when it’s done, I feel like it won’t really be done. There is a lot still to happen between us. Anyway, it’s only part of your wedding present.” Her wide, earnest gaze returned to his.
“What’s the other part?”
“Me, monsieur.”
She gave him one of her impish smiles, the type that never failed to make his cock stand on end. He swept her into his arms and carried her to their bed, and laid her back, pushing up the skirt of her dress as he came over her. He should probably take more care. The dress cost a lot, but ripping it off his bride—his bride, for God’s sake—was worth all the fortune in the world.
“I never wanted to get married,” he murmured in her ear. “This is all your fault. All this upheaval in my life.”
“Yes, Master,” she said as he stripped off the last of the gauzy material. “I should be punished. Severely punished.”
He chuckled and shoved open her thighs. “I think fucking is a more traditional wedding night activity. We’ll save the arduous, prolonged punishments for the honeymoon.”
Valentina made a sound between a groan and a sigh as he shoved his fingers inside her. The honeymoon...oh, he had plans for the honeymoon, and plenty of time to put them into action. One of her younger sisters had come to Paris a few months ago to learn Valentina’s part in Élémental, at least the nearest approximation of it she could manage. With Lucia to fill in, Michel could steal his bride away for two whole weeks to a remote castle in the Italian countryside. It had a real, honest-to-goodness dungeon, one of the main reasons he’d rented it.
Another reason–Michel needed the break, since there had been two of the Sancia sisters in his hair. He had nicknamed them Vesuvius One and Vesuvius Two. When they returned from Italy, Michel knew he would have to find Lucia an act in one of Cirque’s other productions. Such talent shouldn’t go to waste. In fact, he was in talks to bring all the family under Cirque du Monde’s wing, the entire collection of sisters, brothers, cousins, father and mother, aunts and uncles. There were a good number of them, all talented and lacking inhibition or fear.
Earlier tonight, six of the young women from her family, including Valentina, had done a seductive, sensual dance at the wedding reception. It was a family tradition, apparently, of Iberian-Andalusian origins. The flame-haired women had shaken their hips and twirled and writhed with age-old moves of invitation until every attendee was on their feet, stomping along with catcalls and applause. By the end of it, he wanted to tackle Valentina right in the middle of the dance floor and fuck her into oblivion. He did not, however. Nor did he dream of taking all six of them to his bed as some of the other men undoubtedly did. One Vesuvius in his life was enough. More than enough. One volcanic, fiery lover, with talents yet to be explored.
“Do the dance for me again,” he said, rolling away from her. “The one you did with your sisters and cousins.”
“But I’m naked. I have no skirts to swish about.”
“Improvise,” he ordered. “I want sexy dancing. Now.”
She scooped her slightly damaged wedding dress from the floor and draped it over one shoulder and down across her waist. She began a seductive hum, rolling her hips and then snapping them on the downbeats, using the dress to flutter about now and again. They had had chamber music at the wedding, and
full symphonies at the reception, but somehow it wasn’t as lovely as this improvised melody. So beautiful, her shape and femininity, and the power she held even when submitting to his commands. Without that power, she wouldn’t fascinate him. She wouldn’t challenge him so that his every day became about owning her and improving her, and loving her, and making her smile.
His cock bucked as she raised her arms in the air, their sinuous movements ending in prettily posed hands. She turned in a circle, then looked back at him over her shoulder. Their gazes caught and locked. Come hither, her eyes said.
I’m going to fuck you to pieces is what he thought. He reached out and grabbed the dress and yanked it toward him. She followed, falling onto the bed, right into his clutches.
“Fucking and dancing and making art,” he said, pushing her beneath him. “That’s pretty much all you’re good for.”
“I perform too,” she reminded him.
“Oui, you somehow manage to do that without breaking your neck.”
“Because I’m talented,” she said, sighing as he caressed her.
“I know all about your talents.” He felt drunk on love and lust for her. He felt happy. Ecstatic. Reborn. “You drive me crazy. Why on earth did I make you my wife? Am I crazy too?”
“I think you must be a little,” she said with a grin.
His lips covered hers as he entered her. The dress slipped between them, cool silk against warm, fragrant skin. Valentina, La Vampa, Vesuvius, whatever her name, he loved her. He adored her elementally, like air and earth, and water and spirit.
Like fire.
THE END
A Final Note
I hope you enjoyed Michel and Valentina’s fiery love story, the conclusion (at least for now) of my Cirque Masters series. I’ve had a lot of fun bringing the world of Cirque and the world of kink together in one yummy package for all of you to perv.
