The Pleasure Slave i-2 Page 12

  "I did not," he grudgingly—finally—admitted. "I bolted him inside a storage chamber."

  "Dead or alive?"

  His shoulders straightened, and his expression grew shuttered. "I will not kill your people, Julia." A measure of relief swept through her, but the relief quickly faded, replaced all too soon by consternation as she recalled the state of her undress. She shooed him away with her hands. "Go set him free, Mr. Peeping Tom."

  "I am Tristan."

  "Look, this is a woman's dressing room." When he didn't immediately walk away, she added, "That means no men allowed."

  "During your lessons," he said with an edge of determination in his voice, "I am in charge. Buying new clothes is part of a lesson. That means right now, you obey me. And I wish to stay."

  He had her there, damn him. She couldn't break a parameter, not when she'd broken one this very morning. So being desperate, she opted for the only option available. Her eyes imploring, she said, "Please, Tristan. I'm begging you. Go find Gary and set him free before we get into trouble." And before she died of mortification.

  Tristan stiffened, eyed her with a riotous emotion she couldn't identify, maybe didn't want to identify. Yet she caught a glimpse of shadowed pain, so much pain she wondered how he survived. "Are you okay?" Concern washed through her, and she closed what distance between them she could. Only the width of the door kept their chests from touching. She clasped the warmth of his hand within her own. "What's wrong? You're suddenly so pale."

  Fury and incredulity etched the lines of his face. "You begged me," he stated coldly. "You begged me to leave."

  "Of course I did." What did that have to do with anything? Exasperated now, she gave him a stern, no-nonsense glare. "Will you please just go? I want to get dressed."

  Without another word, he turned and stalked away. Hurry, hurry, hurry, echoed in her mind as Julia jerked on her jeans and T-shirt. She tried not to ponder what Tristan had really thought of her poor excuse for a body. Covered at last, she randomly grabbed ten of the dresses he'd chosen, plus swiped several pairs of slacks from a nearby rack and rushed to pay.

  She was just accepting her change when Tristan approached her side, Gary close behind him.

  "It is as you wish," Tristan said stiffly.

  "Thanks." She gave the salesman a quick glance—he looked irked but alive—then focused all of her attention on Tristan. "I want to hit a few more stores before we head home." She'd taken the day off, and by God, she was going to get all of her shopping done. "What about your gowns?"

  "I've already paid for them."

  "I wished to see you wear them." Was there a bit of a whine in his tone?

  "I'll show you later, okay?" When I can change behind a proper door!

  "Do you not know the meaning of the phrase 'in charge'?" he growled.

  "Apparently not," she muttered.

  With deliberate leisure, he leaned his hip against the counter. "Mayhap I need to give you a lesson in obedience, as well as enticement."

  Julia swiped a stray tendril of hair from her eyes.

  "Just try it, tough guy, and you'll get a lesson in karate."

  "I must admit, I am growing more and more intrigued by this karate of yours. Do you, mayhap, practice the sport naked?"

  "Only on rainy days," she replied dryly. "Now let's go."

  Laden down with sacks, they visited three more shops, buying shoes and accessories and yes, slinky lingerie, which she bought while Tristan was distracted with the "amazing delicacies" of corn dogs and French fries found at the food court.

  No matter where they went, he hovered behind her. She needed protecting, he said, therefore he protected her. End of story. If a man glanced her way in a manner remotely unfriendly (or friendly) her charming, playful pleasure slave morphed into a demon from hell. He scowled. Growled. Clenched his fists.

  Exasperating. Simply exasperating.

  At home, she planted him in front of the TV and took another relaxing bubble bath. Like any man, Tristan became fascinated with the remote control.

  Go figure.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  You Are Always In Submission To Your Master Whether She Is Present Or Not

  Tristan eased back on the velvety soft chaise, fingering 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 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. When the words "I'm begging you" had left Julia's mouth, he'd wanted to rip out his heart and give the offending organ to her.

  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 his father 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 him cry for mercy?

  Innumerable.

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

  There were days he would have willingly dropped to his knees, all 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. 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 that had been his life.

  Then at sixteen spans, he met Roake, a boy of sixteen who had endured his own share of pain. 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 many rebel troops. And as a reward, Great-Lord Challann gave them land of their own.

  Finally Tristan had 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, he thought darkly; 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, seeing it as a means to an end instead. Except with Julia. He didn't dread the thought of being with her. Nay, he yearned for her nakedness and touch with every ounce of his manhood, 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 truly know her own desires. He'd come to realize that she thought herself shy and plain and unworthy of anyone who was not. How had she ever become so deceived? To Tristan, she radiated kindness, generosity and compassion. Her inner beauty magnified her outer beauty, giving her such luminescence, such tranquility, that no other woman compared. She was precious, worth so much more than she could possibly imagine.
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  Tristan tangled a hand through his hair, his jaw clenched. He was beginning to realize love was not the monster he'd thought it to be. The moment the thought filled his mind, he blinked and shook his head. He even repeated the phrase out loud. "Love is not a monster."

  Every muscle in his body tensed, waiting for him to deny the words, but he could not. Nay, he could not deny them, for he could at last see merits to the emotion. Knowing a woman's smile belonged solely to him… watching passion flare to life in her eyes… tasting her sweetness for the rest of his life.

  He knew, though, that loving Julia would be so much worse than any torture he'd hitherto endured. Loving her meant losing her, for there would be no magic to bind them together, and he would hurtle back to his world without her, to never see her smile again, to never breathe in the lushness of her scent.

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

  He simply wanted Julia.

  Passion lay buried underneath her prudish exterior; he knew it, a raw, primal passion that was so hot it required only one kiss to make her burn. His nerve endings sparked to life with the memory. What would it take for her to catch fire and burn again—for him and no other? What would it take to make her forget Peter?

  His fist clenched the dagger so tightly the blade slashed into his skin and a trickle of blood flowed down the length of his arm. Peter must be forced from her mind. The puny man did not deserve Julia's radiance. 'Twas time Julia realized it.

  I will give her another lesson, he thought, applauding himself for his own ingenuity. Lesson number two would be anticipation and, as her tutor, it was his duty, nay, his obligation, to make her study. Find her, his body shouted.

  Following the scent of spices, he strode into the kitchen. The sight of Julia stopped him, held him ensnared. 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 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, wondering what her chin would taste like if he licked the sauce away. The image left him hard and aching, his muscles bunched. Instead of closing the distance between them, locking his arms around her and crushing her lips with his own, he 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 features. "Can you wait until later?"

  "Nay." He needed his body scrubbed clean—clean enough to eat off—for what he had planned.

  "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 for a Gillradian bathhouse. He adjusted the setting until water streamed down, pounding against the tub.

  Tristan stripped and stepped into the center. 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 mouth sucked at his nipples. Then, when he could stand that 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.

  His hands fisted. If he did not halt these imaginings, his warrior's training would soon abandon him completely. He might pounce on her, hurt her, and he would no more hurt her than he would hurt himself. But her image refused to leave. Instead, his mind's eye stripped her down and had her stepping into the tub with him. Her smooth, pale skin glittered with moisture, her only color the delicious pink of her nipples and the dark patch of curls between her legs. His mind's eye had her gifting him with a secret little smile as she allowed her fingertips to swirl around his navel… then dip lower. His muscles constricted as a surge of pleasure ripped through him.

  He could no more stop his next action than he could refuse to take another breath. With the fragrant steam billowing around him and the rivulets of water streaming down his chest, he reached down and clasped his shaft in his hand, picturing her hand there instead. He stroked himself, going from base to tip with a tight fist. He could almost feel her teeth scraping his nipples, could almost feel her lips sliding all over him. Only when he imagined that she moaned with the pleasure of touching him, did he find release.

  A paltry substitute, he knew, yet it was effective all the same. He might not feel completely satisfied, but he was calm, once more in control.

  Frowning, he emerged from the tub on a haze of mist. Using a thin strip of cloth, he strapped his dagger to his thigh. Then he 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 saw her sitting at the table, waiting, dishes and food in place on the tabletop, something in his chest constricted. How he wanted this woman. All of her. Her hands were folded in front of her and she wore an expression of dreamy relaxation.

  "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 blinked up at him. Her mouth drooped a bit and a distraught light entered her eyes. "Uh, Tristan—"

  He cut off her words before they formed. "Everything looks and smells delicious, Julia."

  She tore her gaze from his towel. "I hope you're hungry."

  "I'm always hungry."

  "That's good." Oh, yes, that's very good, Julia thought, sneaking another peek at Tristan's bronzed perfection. Droplets of water trickled from his hair, ran 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. Her mouth suddenly felt dry and parched.

  "Do you like lasagna?" she managed to squeak out.

  "I would like anything you prepared." That naughty towel parted slightly as he slid into his chair.

  Look away, Julia. No, enjoy. Damn it, look away. Finally she did. "Shouldn't you get dressed before we eat?" As she waited for his answer, her fingers twisted and shredded her napkin to ribbons. Her foot tapped against the table leg as she stifled the urge to wrap them around his waist.

  "Nay," he said, not sparing her a glance. "This is appropriate attire for one's home, is it not?"

  "I guess so." But how was she supposed to concentrate on dinner while she could very well imagine him sprawled out on the tabletop, a buffet of masculinity for her own personal enjoyment? I'll never be able to concentrate. Her appetite had taken a swift turn away from food, and to—she stole another quick glance and felt hot, so hot—to that.

  He didn't seem to have a problem concentrating, however. Whistling under his breath, he piled his plate high with salad, breadsticks and pasta. His facial features were so relaxed she suspected he might fall asleep.

  Throughout the meal, her unbidden gaze caressed his small brown nipples puckered from the cool air, then dipped lower. Lower still. She willed his towel to melt away so that she could ran her palms over his abdomen—and anything else she encountered along the way. She even willed his fingers on her body, perhaps unfastening her jeans, slipping them from her legs and tunneling beneath her panties. How delightful it would be to have such strength and heat spread all over her.

  His knee brushed hers.

  The innocent touch propelled spears of fire through her blood. She gasped.

  "My apologies," he muttered, never even glancing her way.

  "No problem," she managed.

  When he did it yet again and again, and then
again, Julia dropped her fork with a clank. She drew in a shaky breath. One. Two. Three. Her body countered with a mantra of its own. Sex. Sex. Sex. Every nerve within her suddenly screamed with sensation, and when she discovered that she was caressing a bread stick and Tristan was watching her, her face heated.

  "You have no liking for the food?" he asked, all innocence.

  "No. I mean, yes. It's fine." Did he know what he was doing to her? No, he couldn't, she thought. He was too busy eating the entire pan of lasagna. Concentrate, Julia. You are not a nymphomaniac— much as you might wish otherwise. Her hands trembled as she lifted the utensil and feigned interest in the food.

  Twice she managed to steal another peak at him, and twice more he casually bumped her with his leg. He still looked completely relaxed, at ease, while desire kindled within her, embers ready to burst into flame. His damp skin beckoned for caring, gentle hands to wipe away every drop of moisture. His mouth cried out for hot, wet kisses.

  She wanted him, was, in fact, just about to leap over the table and rip the towel from his body when the doorbell rang. Saved, she mentally clapped, dropping her fork and jumping to her feet.

  "I'll be right back," she said. "We've got a visitor."

  Her heart drumming erratically inside her chest, she tugged open the door. The frantic beat slowed, and she dragged in a much needed breath. Peter smiled when he spotted her.

  "Hi, Julia," he said, his tone shy and hesitant, yet a panicked light flittered into his hazel eyes. "Your brother's not here, is he?"

  "He's in the kitchen. Completely absorbed in his food," she added when Peter backed three hasty steps away.

  His shoulders relaxed. He slipped his hands into his pants pockets and jingled change. "I noticed your car in the driveway and wondered if you'd like to—"

  Tristan, who suddenly stood right behind her, barked, "We are busy." And shut the door in Peter's stunned, horrified face with more force than necessary.