The Pleasure Slave i-2

by Gena Showalter

  "You already have." He cupped her chin in his hands, forcing her to face him once again. "You already have."

  She blinked up at him, and he knew she didn't understand what he was telling her.

  "I want you, Julia. I see who you truly are. I see your beauty. And I want you so much I ache."

  "But the lessons—"

  "Have nothing to do with how I feel about you. Do you think I would make you study so intensely if I did not actually crave you? Never doubt your appeal. I do want you, and my desire is not civilized or forced or contrived. Nay, to me you are more precious, more beautiful, than any other woman I have ever encountered."

  "How can you, a man who has known thousands of women, say that about me—and mean it?"

  "Mayhap when we return home, we will have ourselves a little chat to help you understand, hmm?" he replied with a dark scowl. "Complete with a demonstration and charts. Believe me, Julia, when I say that there is something special about you, something I have never encountered before."

  A long while passed in silence as she studied him.

  "I believe you," she whispered, her eyes softening with awe. "I do."

  "Good. Then I am going to give you another lesson. How to rid oneself of unwanted company." Tristan tugged her to a window alcove, which offered a perfect view to the restaurant's inhabitants. He leaned down, gently brushing his lips against hers. Then his fingers tangled in her hair, and he tilted her chin to kiss her more deeply. As his tongue explored her mouth, his lips demanded all of her passion. He wasn't sure which of them was flavored with wine and which of them was flavored with mint. He didn't care, either. He only yearned for more.

  With Julia, there was always this need. Always this magic.

  He leaned his hips into her body and wordlessly demanded she acknowledge that he was the only man for her. She moaned. He caught the sound, fighting the urge to whisk her away to a private haven where he might explore her more fully. His thumb played at the corner of her mouth, a silent appeal to take him deeper. Deeper, still. He hadn't lied to her. She affected him as no other ever had. If he could, he would give her his heart, give her his name. Give her his children.

  Before his blood heated to the point of no return, he forced himself to pull back. His arms suddenly felt empty, void. Arousal blazed in Julia's eyes and gentled her expression with hazy desire. "Come," he said. "Let us see if this lesson was successful." With a possessive hand at her waist, he led her back to the table.

  Peter watched them through wide, horrified eyes. He shot to his feet so quickly his chair skidded across the floor. "I don't know what gave you the impression I'm into kink, but I assure you I am not. A tiger doesn't have to put up with this… this sexual weirdness. I have to go."

  "So soon?" Tristan asked, his tone clearly suggesting it wasn't soon enough.

  That said, Peter tossed his napkin to the floor and stalked away.

  Julia felt only relief… and just a hint of guilt.

  Faith gasped. "What was that all about? And did he say tiger?"

  "Aye. He did," Tristan said, canting his chin to the side and watching Peter's retreating back.

  "And he thinks we're weird?"

  "Well… I kind of told him that Tristan is our brother," Julia admitted.

  Her sister hid a grin behind her hand, and when that didn't work, she allowed her chuckles free rein. "No wonder he—" Another laugh escaped. "You two are bad. So very, very bad."

  Relaxed and solicitous now, Tristan helped Julia into her chair, then resumed his seat at the table. The food arrived not long after on a scented cloud of creamy butter and lemon sauce.

  Faith chewed two bites of her prime rib and suddenly dropped her fork. "I, uh, just remembered that I'm needed at the lab." Though her tone lacked conviction, she grabbed her purse and jacket and jumped to her feet. "Don't worry about me. I'll catch a cab." With only a wistful glance at her food, she rushed out of the building.

  Julia tossed him a smile that nearly stole the breath from his lungs. "This evening is suddenly far better than I could have ever anticipated, and I almost want to give you a lesson in doggie bags."

  He didn't understand her meaning, but grinned all the same as he filled two glasses with the dark, crimson wine. "Lesson six has nothing to do with these doggie bags, but everything to do with discovery. Our discovery of each other."

  She gave a quick intake of breath, almost undetectable, but he was attuned to her every nuance and knew she was excited by his words, by the images his admission evoked.

  "You know," she said, her voice husky now. "I do want to be a good student. The very best."

  Blood rushed to his groin as her words rained over him, as bold and seductive as an actual caress. He shifted in his seat. "Lesson six will require intense, in-depth training at home—in bed." With the tip of his finger, he traced a path across her cheek, along her jaw. "What think you of that?"

  "I think I'm glad." She sipped her wine, watching him over the rim of her glass. The pulse in her neck quickened. He longed to caress the beat with his tongue.

  Later he promised himself. Later. She had never experienced a «real» date, and he wanted to give her one.

  The rest of the meal passed in a sexually charged silence as they each watched the other, each anticipating what came next. When their plates were taken away, Tristan ordered dessert, then leaned over the table and picked up their conversation as if it had never ceased. "Tell me about your childhood, little dragon. I know very little about your past."

  She set her napkin aside and regarded him. "What exactly do you want to know?"

  "Everything."

  "Hmm… well, I had a typical childhood, I guess. My parents split up when I was eight."

  When she didn't continue, he said, "That tells me nothing. Give me the complete story."

  "The complete story. Okay. I don't know why my parents had children. We were more a nuisance to them than anything. When they weren't fighting with each other, they were fighting with us. During the divorce proceedings, they argued over who got custody of me and Faith, though not the way you'd expect. Mom wanted us to go with Dad, and he wanted us to go with Mom. We ended up with my mom and never heard from my father again."

  There was no bitterness in her tone, only acceptance and regret. Tristan touched her knee, keeping the action gentle and reassuring. There was a vulnerability about her, a sadness that enveloped her and touched his heart—a heart he'd thought long dead.

  "Tell me the rest," he coaxed.

  "There's not much more to tell, really." Tracing a circle around the rim of her glass, she said, "About five years after the breakup, my mom remarried. Her new husband was a salesman, not a very good one I might add, but he traveled a lot with his job. She liked to go with him. Faith and I spent weeks at a time alone. It's a wonder child services didn't take us away."

  As she spoke, he traced his fingertips over her knee, offering comfort for all she had endured. "Do you ever speak with your parents now?"

  "Rarely."

  "I am sorry." He wanted to wipe the painful memories from her mind, but also wanted to learn more about her. There would be time for forgetting later, when he filled her mind with passion and pleasure.

  Right now, he said, "Will you tell me about your first date?"

  She did, her voice trembling with every word.

  By the end of the story, fury raced a treacherous path through Tristan's veins. Killing the boy who had hurt his woman wasn't punishment enough. He wanted to tie the idiot to an hendrek hill—naked, of course—letting the tiny creatures slowly eat him alive. Instead, he drew on his battle instincts and kept his emotions under tight restraint.

  He didn't have to scratch too far below the surface of her words to understand the anguish she had endured. Both her mother and father had rejected her. The first boy she showed interest in had rejected her. Now Julia simply expected rejection. That explained so much of her personality, and he sympathized, for he himself had endured many of the same rejection
s as a child.

  The waiter deposited their dessert on the table then disappeared in a flurry. Tristan toyed with the stem of a plump red fruit. Were they alone, he would sweep the dewy softness along her silken skin and lick away the evidence. Since they were not, he pinched the fruit between his fingers and held it to Julia's lips. "Open up."

  The pink tip of her tongue emerged, tasted, then devoured. "Mmm, that's good. Thank you."

  He gulped.

  "What about you?" she asked, unaware of the fire she continually stirred inside his body. She speared a small corner of the cake with her fork and brought it to her mouth. "What's your life story?" Her teeth closed over the sugary confection.

  He dragged his gaze from her luscious charms, across the wide expanse of the dance floor, to rest on the far window that paid homage to the night heavy with glowing stars. "This you do not want to know."

  "Yes, I do," she said without pause. "Besides, you owe me. I told you about my childhood. Now you have to tell me about yours. That's only fair."

  Tristan had never shared this part of himself with another, not even Roake. But he refused to lie to Julia, or sweeten the details. She desired to know about him, and so he would tell her. "There were times when I was young that I wished my father did not want me. I never knew why, but I always knew he hated me."

  "Surely he didn't hate you."

  "Then why did he give me these?" Tristan clasped her hand and placed it under his shirt, then guided her fingers to his back, to his scars.

  "Tristan," she whispered, horrified, not knowing what else to say.

  "My scars did not appear by divine power, Julia," Tristan said, his eyes fierce. "He hated me, and proved it every time he wielded the whip."

  "Oh, Tristan. I'm so sorry." She wanted to put her mouth on every scar, to kiss and make them better while she flicked her tongue over one peak, then another. Temptation caressed insidious ribbons throughout her body as tears welled in her eyes. She allowed her fingertips one last stroke before removing them from his clothing and placing them in her lap. She imagined Tristan as a young boy, beaten, bruised and unloved. While her parents merely neglected her, his father had physically abused him. She ached for him, for what he'd lost and endured. "I'm so very, very sorry."

  "Do not cry for me, little dragon." His anger and frustration for those years still ate at him at times, but Julia's compassion helped soothe the pain that lingered. "I did not always know hatred." Smiling gently, he wiped the moisture from her eyes and the curve of her cheekbone. "I spent the first five years of my life with my mother. She adored me."

  "How did she die?" Julia asked softly.

  "She did not." His eyes darkened to steely gray, revealing secrets and pain. "Where I am from, warriors are looked to with respect and reverence. She was unmated, only a slave, and could not teach me the art of warfare. When the time came, she entrusted me into my father's care so that I might acquire the proper training."

  "A five-year-old child training to be a warrior? Your childhood makes mine seem like a fairy tale."

  "Suffering comes in many forms. Do not discount your own." He placed his napkin on the table, effectively ending that line of conversation. "Tell me why you have not arranged the upstairs chambers in your home."

  Her shoulders lifted in a delicate shrug, and she graciously accepted the change in topics. "When I bought the house, I imagined myself there with a husband and children. I wanted to make the upstairs a nursery, one room for a boy and one for a girl, but I haven't yet because seeing them all fixed up and knowing I have no one to live there will hurt." She paused. "That sounds stupid, doesn't it?"

  "Stupid? Nay." Heartbreaking? Aye. For he could never give her the children she craved. And he suddenly longed to see her cradling his son or daughter in her arms. Ah, was there anything sweeter? He should never have mentioned the room, and if she said one more word about them, he might offer her promises he could not keep. Might drop to his knees and swear at the heavens for all that he would never experience.

  "What else do you dream about when you are alone?" he asked hoarsely. "What do you secretly crave?"

  "Besides another cherry?" she asked, following his lead with a gentle smile.

  "Aye. Besides that." He pinched another fruit and placed it at the portal of her lips. Watching him, she chewed, swallowed. Her eyes widened when he leaned over and licked the remaining evidence from the corner of her mouth. "Well, what is your answer?"

  "About what?" she asked breathlessly.

  His nearness warmed her ear. "Your dreams."

  "I dream about what every other woman dreams about, I suppose. Finding my one, true love."

  "That much I already know." Under the table, he stroked her knee. "Is there nothing else you desire right this moment?"

  She hesitated only briefly, giving him the idea she was not truthful with her next words. "There's nothing else I want."

  "Then I will just have to do everything in my power to change your mind, will I not?" He didn't wait for her response. "Are you ready to go home?" he asked, the words to begin your next lesson hanging in the air unsaid.

  This time, she didn't hesitate with her answer. "Yes. I'm ready."

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Imperia

  "Close your eyes, Zirra." Instantly she obeyed. Firelight licked the lushness of her features. Freshly bathed, Romulis reclined against the corner wall. The marble slat was cool and seeped past the fibers of his silver Imperian robe. The coolness did nothing to damper his arousal. Zirra sat at the edge of her bed, her sheer white gown clinging to her every curve. Had there ever been a woman more alluring? She fairly hummed with mating heat. She radiated it, smelled of it, moved with it. He had lusted for her since the first moment he had seen her, and his desire for her had not lessened over the years. Nay, it had grown.

  He had known instinctively that she was his chosen life-mate. Yet she always denied him. A lesser man might have given up long before now. Mayhap he should have admitted defeat. He liked to think he possessed too much pride to beg for her attentions.

  But here he was. Here he was, willing to accept any scrap of tenderness she might offer. When she had summoned him, she'd interrupted his magic and talon practice, yet he eagerly dropped his sword and came to her, just because she had need of him. He'd hoped she meant to at last accept him. But she hadn't. Instead she had asked him to help find her former lover. The rage he had felt at that moment still beat within him. He yearned to cleave Tristan in two. At the very least, beat the warrior to a bloody mass.

  Unable to do either of those things, he agreed to help Zirra find him. Because now she owed him—and he had every intention of collecting. Soon. Not yet, but soon.

  "Are you peeking?" he asked her.

  "Nay." She squeezed her eyelids so tightly little grooves formed at the edges. His voice was tight with irritation when she added, "Why will you not call him back?"

  "Because his box will then belong to me, and I wish not to own him. Do you wish for me to own him?"

  "Nay," she shouted vehemently. Then more calmly, "Nay." She paused. "If you owned him, you could gift the box to me."

  "But I would not. I would cast the cursed thing into the nearest hearth and happily watch the man inside burn." Her eyelids popped open. "You would not dare—"

  "Aye. I would. Now offer no more complaints, or I will leave you here on your own."

  It was a threat neither of them believed, for he wanted her too severely. Needed to taste her too desperately.

  And they both knew it. He would give her anything she asked, even another man, if only to know her passion just once.

  I am a fool, he thought with disgust.

  "Close your eyes," he demanded again. She did.

  Guilt wound through him. He was disobeying his father, a man he respected, a man he admired. Still that did not dissuade him. As if an invisible cord tugged him, he strode to her. She sensed his nearness and tiny bumps rose on her flesh. Her scent drifted to his nostrils, magic
and moonlight, and was so completely arousing he grit his teeth against the pain of wanting her. Unable to stop himself, he traced a fingertip over the curve of her ear, then tangled his hand in her hair. Her lips parted on a wispy catch of breath.

  Dewy mist swirled from the sea, past the windows, kissing her cheeks and neck, dampening her hair and silky blue robe. She was beauty and strength epitomized, a woman who would appeal to any who looked upon her, yet there was something very vulnerable about her, something at the periphery of her smile. Insecurities, mayhap.

  "Reach inside yourself," he whispered. "Find the source of your magic."

  Her lips pursed as she concentrated. The fact that she did not hesitate sent another surge of anger through him, battling with his desire, mingling with his guilt. He wanted to hate Zirra, wanted again to hurt Tristan. How did such a man, who lacked any mystical powers, command such devotion from this sorceress?

  Scowling, he dropped his hand to his side. "My father's spell did not destroy your powers. It merely covered them, like a blanket. Reach under the blanket."

  "There," she said excitedly. "I can see what you mean." She clapped her hands, keeping her eyes tightly closed, and he suddenly sensed a charged energy enveloping her. "I have it. I have it!"

  So lovely. So deadly. "Now open your mouth," he commanded roughly.

  Her lashes fluttered open, casting shadows upon her cheeks. When she saw him, she gasped, startled. "Romulis?"

  "Hold on to the source of your power and open your mouth," he commanded once more, his voice rough with the force of his desire.

  Just as before, she obeyed.

  He crushed his lips to hers, his tongue immediately pushing deep and hard. Her teeth scraped him. Greed and decadence were her flavors; heady, forbidden, and he did not want to like them, but he did. All too well.

  She purred, a deep throaty sound. His powers swirled around them, blending with the mystic abilities she clasped in her mind. Arcs of energy charged and lit the air and hummed along their skin. He pressed his erection between her thighs. Her nails bit into his shoulders. He palmed her breasts in his hands, measuring their luscious weight. She ground herself against him, searching for completion. He groaned, a sound of victory and joy, because he felt her need and knew she wanted him.