Prince of Forever

by Gena Showalter

  It was all exasperating. And wonderful. Someone cared about her well-being.

  At home, she planted Tristan in front of the TV, planning to take a relaxing bubble bath. Like any man, Tristan became fascinated with the remote control.

  Go figure.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  You Must Always Submit To Your Mistress Whether She Is Present Or Not

  TRISTAN EASED BACK on the velvety chaise, stroking his new dagger and staring up at the ceiling. In the center, lights dripped like forgotten tears, their essence draped by burgundy-and-cream-colored glass. A clatter of voices drifted from the talking box in front of him, and he heard the sound of children giggling and racing outside, just beyond the royal-blue stained glass window.

  They were so happy out there. So free. They did not know how it felt to beg for one’s desires.

  But Julia did. She had begged him.

  At the clothing store, she’d asked him to leave her alone, and when he refused, she had begged him.

  Begged him.

  He hated himself for it, because he knew all too well how it felt to grovel. If he could rip out his heart and give Julia the offending organ, he would.

  How many nights had he spent on his knees, hands clasped, tears streaming down his cheeks as he pleaded with his father for necessities? How many eves had the male taken him into town, tied him to a post, then whipped him until only thin strips of skin were left on his back? All for the sheer pleasure of hearing Tristan cry for mercy?

  Innumerable.

  The pain of those years even overshadowed the ones he’d spent as a pleasure slave. He easily recalled the humiliation and depravation. If he’d needed to eat, he’d begged. If he’d needed a blanket to warm his body, he’d begged. If he’d needed to rest, he’d begged.

  There were days he would have willingly dropped to his knees and pleaded for a simple show of affection from the father who was supposed to love him—affection he never received. As a small measure of revenge, he had learned to repress his body’s reactions, never crying out, never showing weakness no matter what cruelty was inflicted upon him. He’d simply channeled his energy into another direction. Seduction. At such a young age, he became a lover of great talents, learning the nuances of the female form, learning every secret place that brought a woman pleasure. In return, he found a short reprieve from the harsh reality of his life.

  Then, at sixteen seasons, he met Roake, a boy of sixteen who had endured his own share of anguish. The two of them struck out on their own. Together they practiced wielding a sword until their skill surpassed even that of their Great Lord. They fought for their city, dispatching countless rebel troops. And as a reward, the Great Lord had given them land of their own.

  Finally Tristan had owned a home, a home he admired.

  Then Zirra had placed him in bondage.

  The salvation he had always found in a woman’s arms ultimately became his downfall, his sexual knowledge the bane of his existence, yet his only means of escape. How ironic. How cruel. During the first span of his curse, he had ceased thinking of sex as a pleasure, instead seeing it as a means to an end. Except with Julia. He didn’t dread the thought of being with her. Nay, he yearned for her with every fiber of his being, and neither escape nor obligation had anything to do with it.

  Why did she continue to resist him?

  He was beginning to think that all the knowledge in the galaxies could not win her devotion. And he so badly wanted to win her. She was a woman of surprising depth. Her smile held warmth and sunshine and such captivating beauty he was still awed by its majesty. Her anger held traces of fire and frost, and he often found himself longing to spark her ire simply to soothe her.

  Sometimes she seemed a volatile mixture of emotions—need, fear, surety, doubt—as if she didn’t know her own desires. Because of some of the things she’d said today…

  I’m too big for this garment.

  This dress wasn’t made for a woman like me.

  People will laugh if someone like me wears this in public.

  She considered herself plain and unworthy of anyone who was not. How had she ever become so deceived? To Tristan, she radiated kindness, generosity and compassion; the more he’d gotten to know her, the more her inner beauty magnified her outer beauty, giving her such luminescence, such tranquility, that no other woman could compare. She was precious, worth so much more than she could possibly imagine.

  Jaw clenched, Tristan tangled a hand through his hair. Mayhap love was not the monster he’d considered it.

  Every muscle in his body tensed as he prepared to deny the words, but the thoughts never formed. Nay, he could not deny them, for he had begun to suspect the emotion came with…perks. Knowing a woman’s smile belonged to him and him alone… watching passion blaze in her eyes every time they neared each other…tasting her sweetness every morning and night for the rest of his life…

  He knew, though, that falling in love with Julia would be so much worse than any torture he’d hitherto endured. The second he fell, he would lose her. Zirra’s curse would be broken, and there would be no magic to bind them together; he would boomerang back to his world without her. Never again would he see her smile. Never again would he breathe in the lushness of her scent.

  Nay, love might not be a monster, but he still wanted no part of it.

  He simply wanted Julia.

  Raw, primal passion lay buried underneath her prudish exterior, he knew it; with one kiss, he could make her burn.

  Could he make her forget Peter?

  He squeezed the dagger hilt tight, grateful for the sting. A trickle of hot blood flowed down the limb. Peter must be forced from her mind. The puny man did not deserve her radiance. ’Twas time Julia realized it.

  I will give her another lesson. Lesson number two would be anticipation and, as her tutor, it was his duty, nay, his obligation, to make her study.

  Yes! He hardened, his erection already throbbing.

  Following the scent of spices, he strode into the kitchen. The sight of Julia ensnared him, stopping him in his tracks. A jolt of tenderness crashed through him as he watched her pad from the stove to the sink and drain a pot of water, her expression one of intense concentration.

  His mouth watered for another taste of her. “Is our meal ready?”

  With a startled gasp, she whipped around. A spot of red sauce dotted her chin. “Everything will be done in about fifteen minutes.”

  He nodded. Instead of closing the distance between them, locking his arms around her and crushing her lips with his own, he stayed in place and said, “I would like to bathe ere we eat.”

  “Oh.” She placed the pot on the counter. Steam wafted up, a billowing cloud that momentarily shielded her lovely features. “Can you wait until later?”

  “Nay.” For what he had planned, he needed his body scrubbed clean—clean enough to eat off.

  “All right. Fine.” She sighed. “You know where the bathroom is.” Then she paused. “Do you know how to work a shower?”

  “Aye.” At least, he hoped he did. A few minutes later, he found that he did, indeed, know how to work the strange knobs. They were similar to those used in a Gillradian bathhouse. He adjusted the setting until water streamed down, pounding against the tub.

  Tristan stripped and entered the stall. The warm liquid caressed his sensitized skin like the hand of a lover. He was still hard, still ready, and as he stood underneath the spray, his arousal became a source of pain. He wanted Julia’s hands on him, her fingers curled around his cock while her tongue flicked at his nipples. Then, when he could stand the torment no more, he wanted her mouth and hand to trade places, wanted to feel the hot wetness of her tongue stroke his swollen length over and over, again and again.

  He ground his teeth. If he did not halt these imaginings, every ounce of his willpower would vanish. He might pounce on her. Was she ready? Would he frighten her? Inadvertently hurt her?

  Instead, he mentally stripped her down and imagined her joining
him in the shower. Her smooth, pale skin glittered with moisture. A water drop clung to her pretty pink nipple. Another droplet caught in the dark patch of curls between her legs.

  She gifted him with a secret little smile before swirling her fingertips around his navel…then dipping lower. Pleasure ripped through him, and his muscles constricted.

  He could no more stop his next action than he could refuse to take another breath. With the fragrant steam billowing around him, the rivulets of water streaming down his chest, he reached down and clasped his shaft, imagining it was her hand instead. He stroked himself with a tight fist, going from base to tip then back again. He could almost feel her teeth scraping skin as she licked him all over. Only when he imagined her moaning with the rapture did he find release.

  What he didn’t find? Satisfaction or contentment. A hand job was a paltry substitute for Julia. At least he’d calmed and felt in control.

  Tristan emerged from the tub on a haze of mist. Using a thin strip of cloth, he strapped his dagger to his thigh, then wrapped a bigger cloth around his waist. A desire to see Julia, to hear her voice, filled him and he found himself striding back into the kitchen. Praise be to Elliea, it was time to begin her next lesson.

  When he spotted her at the table, waiting for him, dishes and food in place on the tabletop, something in his chest constricted. How he wanted this woman. All of her.

  “I am ready,” he said, his tone leaving no doubt as to just what he was ready for.

  Her lashes swept up and down as she looked him over. Her mouth drooped a bit and a distraught light entered her eyes. “Uh, Tristan—”

  He cut off her words before they formed. No doubt she’d considered ordering him to return to the bathroom and remain until he’d changed into clothes. “Everything looks and smells delicious, Julia.”

  She tore her gaze from his lower body and gulped. “I hope you’re hungry.”

  He dropped his chin and lowered his voice to a seductive rasp. “I’m always hungry.” For you.

  * * *

  “THAT’S GOOD.” Oh, yes, that’s very good. Julia snuck another peek at Tristan’s bronzed perfection. Droplets of water trickled from his dark hair, riding down his hard, sculpted chest and over the ridges of his abdomen. A plain white cloth shielded his upper thighs, waist and penis.

  There. She’d actually used the word in association with him. Penis, penis, penis. The swell of victory gave way to a rise of longing. Longing welcomed lust, and her mouth went dry.

  How could she make it through dinner without jumping him? This wanting…it continued to grow, uncaring about her mental or emotional needs, and she had no defenses.

  “I hope you like lasagna,” she managed to squeak out.

  “I will like anything you have prepared.” That naughty towel parted slightly as he slid into his chair.

  Look away. No, enjoy. No, look away. Finally she did it. She instigated a mental no-peeping-at-the-guest policy and looked away. “Shouldn’t you get dressed before we eat?” Uh-oh. She’d just shredded the napkin in her lap as her foot tapped against the table leg. The stress of not climbing into his lap needed an outlet it seemed.

  “Nay. This is appropriate attire for one’s home, is it not?”

  “I guess so.” But how was she supposed to concentrate on food when she had a buffet of masculinity at her disposal? Because yes, her no-peeping policy just got nixed.

  The jerk didn’t have a problem concentrating. Whistling under his breath, he piled his plate high with salad, bread sticks and pasta. His facial features remained so relaxed, she suspected he might fall asleep.

  Throughout the meal, she repeatedly checked him out from under her lashes. His small brown nipples puckered from the cool air. His muscles flexed and unflexed with his every movement. Faint scars here and there. Perfection. She imagined running her palms over his abdomen as he unfastened her jeans, tunneled beneath her panties and slipped a finger inside her.

  Shivers wracked her. Then his knee brushed hers, and balls of fire rolled through his veins, scorching everything in their path.

  “My apologies,” he muttered when his knee brushed her a second time.

  “No problem,” she managed.

  When he did it a third and fourth time, the fire blazing out of control, Julia dropped her fork with a clank and drew in a shaky breath, mentally counting to ten. One…two…three…sex…sex…

  Her every nerve ending vibrated with sensation. When she realized she was caressing a bread stick—and Tristan was watching her do it—her face heated.

  “You have no liking for the food, draga?” he asked, all innocence.

  Draga—a shortening of dragon, just for her? “No. I mean, yes. It’s fine.” Did he know what he was doing to her? No, he couldn’t. He was too busy eating the entire pan of lasagna.

  Concentrate. You are not a nymphomaniac, as much as you might wish otherwise. She trembled as she lifted the fork and feigned interest in the food.

  Twice she managed to steal another peek at him, and twice more he casually bumped her with his leg. He still looked completely relaxed, at ease, while she grew hotter and achier.

  His damp skin beckoned, and he wanted to wipe away every drop of moisture. His mouth needed a deep, wet kisses.

  She wanted him, was just about to leap over the table and rip the towel away, when the doorbell rang. Saved! She dropped the fork and jumped to her feet.

  “Please excuse me,” she said. “I’ll be right back.”

  He didn’t protest or follow. How unlike him. Did he not know someone was at the door?

  Her heart drummed erratically as she tugged open the door. The frantic beat slowed, and she dragged in a much-needed breath when her visitor’s identity clicked. “Peter!”

  He smiled. “Hi, Julia,” he said, his tone shy and hesitant. A panicked light flittered into his hazel eyes. “Your brother’s not here, is he?”

  “He is. But he’s in the kitchen, completely absorbed in his meal,” she rushed to add when Peter backed away three hasty steps. “I don’t think he even knows I’m gone.”

  His shoulders relaxed. He slipped his hands into his pants pockets and jingled change. “I wondered if you’d like to come over for dinner and finish our discussion about—”

  Tristan showed up then, pressing his chest against her back. She stiffened as he barked, “We are busy.” Then he shut the door in Peter’s stunned, horrified face with more force than necessary.

  With a moan, Julia propped her forehead against the cherry wood. “That was unbelievably rude.”

  “Was it not rude to interrupt our meal? Now, come.” Tristan led her back to the table, a clear indication he considered the conversation over.

  She bit back a sigh and settled into her chair. She’d visit Peter just as soon as she’d figured out what to say. How could she make him understand Tristan’s presence in her home without lying? Well, lying more. How could she apologize for Tristan’s behavior without lying? You couldn’t build a relationship on lies.

  Tristan’s leg bumped hers again, only this time he lingered. Erotic shivers dislodged all thoughts of Peter. Shivers raced down her spine.

  When Tristan reached under the table and ghosted his fingertips over her thigh, white-hot need crashed through her body like bolts of lightning. Raspy breaths she recognized as her own pounded in her ears. Beads of sweat popped onto her brow. If only he’d forget about the pasta in front of him and feast on her.

  Who am I? When had she become such a sexual being? Another tremor raked her, deliciously decadent.

  “Draga,” he said, lazily dragging out the syllables.

  “Yes?” she answered breathlessly. Oh, yes, yes, yes.

  “Have you, perchance, found something you desire?”

  “Yes.” She forced herself to concentrate, to think of something plausible. “You took my bread stick. I want it back.”

  Light reflected off his eyes, making them twinkle. Delight? Admiration? Mischief? “You want mine when you have not e
aten the one in front of you?”

  “Oh.” She glanced down, saw her plate piled high with uneaten food. “I’m not that hungry.”

  He smiled a slow, sensual smile that held promise and knowledge, wickedness and allure. “Mayhap I can interest you in something else, a more appetizing morsel than bread.”

  He was…flirting with her? Did she have the chops to flirt back? “I’m not sure you can, but perhaps you should try,” she said, dreading—praying—he might say something naughty back.

  A lengthy pause left her suspended on the edge of her chair. Had she messed it up—or nailed it?

  “Mayhap I can interest you in…me.”

  Was the room suddenly hotter? Brighter? She tugged at the collar of her shirt and forced herself to remain seated, lest she throw herself at him. “I made dessert,” she offered lamely. “Well, I didn’t cook it. I just opened the box and set the bonbons on the counter.”

  “Bring them to me,” he coaxed, his voice like soft, rich velvet. “I crave something…sweet.”

  Shivers. Heat. Using dessert as a distraction, Julia straightened on unsteady legs, grabbed the tray of bonbons, set it on the table and reclaimed her seat.

  He eyed the chocolate treats with unfettered delight, and she kind of wished she’d smeared every bite over her naked body.

  Enough! I’m just a guan ren to him. A means to an end he had to pursue because that was his sole purpose in life. The seduction of the box’s owner. To him, she wasn’t special; she couldn’t be. And she needed to be special to her boyfriend…lover…whatever! She needed to be special to someone. Her sister loved her, but Faith had her own life.

  How pathetic Julia would be if she accepted such indifference and did not demand more for herself—more for Tristan. He deserved to feel special, too. Everyone did. Well, most people did. Some people. A few.

  Never once taking his violet gaze off her, he lifted a bonbon and licked the chocolate. “Come closer. Let me feed you dessert,” he said, his voice so silky she had to swallow a dreamy sigh.