The Pleasure Slave i-2 Read online

  "Why?" came the muffled reply. "I've already told you. You and I are not… we aren't…»

  "I did not come to beg for your favors, if that is what you desire." He'd spent too many years of his childhood on his knees, begging for clothes, food and affection, his efforts rewarded with pain and humiliation. To willingly hand that power to another… Nay, he would not. He had proven that to Zirra, and he would prove it now to Julia.

  "I don't want anything from you," she called. "I just want to sleep. Alone."

  She didn't want him to grovel, then. His muscles released their viselike grip on his bones. "I must ascertain your chamber is properly bolted against intruders." Before I strip you naked and seduce you. A heavy pause thickened the air. Finally she uttered a long-suffering sigh. "All right. You may enter." He pushed his way inside. Light dripped like crystal tears from an overhead source, brightly illuminating the small room. Imperian light stemmed from lamori gems, stones that were alive, yet in his otherworld travels he had seen such light sources as this before, some much more elaborate, so he paid this one no heed. Julia sat atop a sinfully decadent four-poster bed of pink silk sheets and mint-green shams. Her knees were pulled to her chest, and her long honey-colored hair cascaded like rays of sunshine around her face, shoulders and slender arms.

  For an instant, her eyes met his, but she quickly glanced away. After a determined inhale, exhale of breath, she once again faced him. "I haven't meant to be so ill-tempered," she said. "I'm just… I don't know. Two days ago I flipped a man off, then shoved him at the flea market just to beat him past the doors. Then I yelled at a perverted killer with a sword—that's you, though I don't think of you as a killer anymore."

  He arched a brow. "But you still think of me as perverted?"

  "No, of course not." She gave a dejected sigh. "What's wrong with me? I'm usually very reserved. I never speak out of turn. But I've managed to insult you over and over again, and I'm sorry. So very sorry. I don't want to hurt you." He had expected anger and resistance from her, yet she displayed repentance. She was the only woman ever to offer him such a thing. For a moment, he closed his eyes, unsure of how to respond.

  What was he going to do with this woman? Seduction somehow seemed wrong. She deserved so much more than he could give her. "You have nothing to apologize for, little dragon. I have enjoyed my time with you."

  "I know you're just saying that," she said shyly, hopefully contemplating him, "but I thank you, anyway." He opened his mouth to comment, but her next words stopped him. "I'm sorry for the kiss, too. I didn't mean to let it get out of hand, or to lead you on."

  She looked so earnest, so concerned for his feelings. First her apology, now this. A guan ren's concern… so new to him, and yet it was the second time Julia had sought to soothe his ego. "Do you forgive me?" she asked.

  He could not refuse her. "You are forgiven, Julia. As a novice, you knew not what you were doing."

  Her features crumpled, and her chin began to tremble. "You noticed, huh? That I'm a novice, I mean?"

  "Aye. Our kiss ended too quickly. A woman of more experience would have known this and continued kissing me."

  "Oh… oh." Understanding dawned. Her chuckle rang in his ears as he checked both windows, making sure the locks worked properly and were bolted securely. He searched under the bed, finding nothing but old, dusty boxes. He circled a dark mahogany chest and rummaged through her closet. The amount of clothing contained in the tiny space almost swallowed him whole. Could one tiny female possibly wear all of these garments?

  "Um, excuse me," Julia said, all traces of humor now gone. "That's my stuff you're going through. My personal belongings."

  "Your personal belongings need organization. Ten men could hide in here and you would never know it."

  "No one is hiding in my closet."

  "Such is the thought of one who will soon be caught unaware."

  She stiffened. "For your information, I look in there every morning."

  "Then tell me, little dragon, what this is." He emerged holding a yellow, green and orange floral-print gown. A large mass of painted foliage covered one side. "This is the most hideous garment I have ever beheld. Do your people truly wear such things?"

  Offended, she lifted her nose high into the air and he had the distinct impression she wanted to give him another lecture. She didn't. She settled for "That's an authentic baby-doll dress from the sixties."

  "It is authentic dung." He knew his eyes were gleaming with mirth as he tossed her the gown. "Put it on."

  "I most certainly will not," she said, catching the material with a humph. "Why don't you try it on?"

  "Men wear armor and weapons, Julia. They do not wear women's clothing."

  "Some men do." Surely she jested, yet her expression held no trace of humor.

  "What man struts around in his woman's gowns?" he demanded.

  "Some men like to wear dresses, okay? Let's just leave it at that. Now, will you please leave my room? It's time to go nighty-night. And do not come back in here for any reason," she added for good measure.

  "Not for any reason?"

  "That's right."

  He crossed his arms over his chest. "What if a witch tries to boil you alive?"

  "I'll beat her over the head with her broom."

  "What if demons of the night attack?"

  "I'll scream my head off."

  He clicked his tongue. "Nay, if I were with you, little dragon, you would scream—again and again. Since you will be alone, you will do nothing but imagine."

  Tristan left her with those words, firmly shutting the door behind him. Curse that man, Julia thought. You will do nothing but imagine, he'd said, and by God, he was exactly right.

  All through the night she tossed and turned, imagining his naked body pressed to hers, his tongue and hands doing wicked things to her. In these fantasies, she was a wild woman. Totally insatiable. She clawed at his back, screamed out his name and sucked the entire length of him into her mouth.

  In her dream, she whispered, "More. Give me more."

  "For you and no other," he replied silkily.

  "Harder. Harder," she begged.

  He softly laughed. "Oh, but I do love to please you."

  "No talk. Only pleasure."

  Several times she almost called out to him and begged him to turn her dreams into reality. In the end, she suffered in silence. Stupidity on her part? Probably.

  Her body might crave the man, but her pride demanded she only give herself to someone who truly lusted for her. As a pleasure slave, Tristan was forced to please his mistress even if he found her unappealing, and Julia didn't want to be just another let-me-get-this-over-with obligation. How pathetic if she were.

  Yes, how pathetic. In a secret part of her heart, she'd always longed for a fairy-tale existence—a man who thought her the most beautiful woman in the world, who loved her madly and deeply. Who worshiped at the altar of her loveliness. Okay, the last was a bit much, but that dream of happily-ever-after had never faded and would never fade.

  There had to be someone out there for her. Please let there be someone out there for me, she prayed. If she found him, maybe then she could regain her sense of contentment.

  Closing her eyes, she blocked the image of Tristan from her mind and pictured the type of man who would find her desirable, yet wouldn't intimidate her. His features were plain, but he had an easy, gentle smile. Heightwise, he stood below average, not much taller than she. He was kind and tender and just a little shy. Most importantly, he never once made her feel stupid or unattractive or unworthy.

  Was that asking for too much?

  "No, it's not," she muttered. In fact, the more she considered this paragon of manly virtue, the more he took the shape of her new next-door neighbor, Peter. Peter had brown hair, kind hazel eyes, and always wore a good-natured grin. Oh, she wasn't attracted to him physically, but she did feel comfortable in his presence. The only problem was, the few times they'd spoken, Peter hadn't acted as if he was in
terested in her.

  You didn't act as if you were interested in him, either, she reminded herself.

  A sigh slipped past her lips. How would Peter react if she called right now and asked him out on a date? Fall to his knees and thank her? Or demand she never call him again? In a spurt of determination, she decided she didn't care how he reacted. She would simply pick up the phone and invite him to dinner. Now. Today. This very second.

  Well, maybe in the morning.

  Confidence swiftly draining, she burrowed deeper into the covers and recalled the first and only date she'd ever experienced. She'd been sixteen, very shy if a bit mischievous. Brian Davidson, the most popular boy in school, had invited her to dinner. Since she'd had a crush on him for years, she foolishly agreed.

  The night of their date, they shared a pizza at the local hangout and talked about their lives. He treated her with such care, was so complimentary, she floated on a rainbow of dreams, imagining the flowers, candy and romance in her future. She'd placed no significance on his glances to the door, or on his laugh, which had rasped a little too high, a little too forced.

  Later in the evening, Brian drove her to his home. His parents were out of town, so they were alone. Or so she'd assumed.

  They talked some more, and Julia shyly admitted how much she liked him, how she wanted her first time to be with him. He smiled, his eyes cold, and leaned down to kiss her. A heartbeat before his lips met hers and all her dreams came true, she heard a deep voice say, "Gross, Bri. You're not actually going to kiss Julie Ghoulie, are you? We dared you to be seen with her in public, not to make out with her."

  Hunter Stevens, Brian's best friend, stood in the hallway, three other boys behind him. All of them doubled over with laughter.

  "Brian, you're so wonderful," one of the boys mimicked. "Man, if I heard her say that one more time, I was going to puke."

  Brian jerked back, his gaze flitting guiltily from hers. "I had to shut her up, didn't I? What took you guys so damn long? Another second and I would've had to do something desperate."

  While the boys continued to laugh and taunt her, Julia had gathered her pride and run out of the house, head high. Each step home, the dam holding her emotions together cracked a bit more. Finally, humiliation and despair consumed her. She had sunk to the ground and sobbed until her tear ducts threatened to burst from the strain.

  That one night had destroyed every ounce of self-confidence she'd possessed—and there hadn't been much to begin with. She'd been shy before, but she'd soon become the tongue-tied idiot she was now.

  How could a man fall in love with a plain, jittery, awkward woman?

  He couldn't.

  But…

  Perhaps now, things could change. Her shoulders straightened, and she blinked up at the ceiling, hope unfurling in her stomach. Yes. Yes! Things could change; Tristan could help her. He possessed a vast amount of experience dealing with the opposite sex, and she could make use of that knowledge. Not the way he wanted, of course, spending hour upon hour burning up the sheets, but in a better way. Better? Make that a more productive way. He could teach her how to attract a man… How to attract Peter.

  And if she didn't desire her neighbor the way she desired Tristan, well, that was her cross to bear. She needed Peter. He was so much like herself, so reserved and lonely, plain and inexperienced. So safe.

  The question was, would Tristan be willing to help her? She absolutely refused to force him under the Pleasure Slave code of behavior. Unsure, Julia stared out the window, a pillow clutched to her chest. Stars twinkled in the black velvet sky. Tristan had made his intentions toward her very clear. She was his master, therefore he thought she belonged in bed—with him. And no other. So how was she going to convince him to help her entice another man?

  CHAPTER SIX

  A Slave Must Never Hesitate When Given An Order

  Sunlight poked unwanted fingers through Julia's bathroom window, brightening the spacious haven and highlighting her fatigue. She stared at her pale, tired reflection in the vanity mirror. Red eyes. Frowning lips. A leisurely shower had done nothing to improve her I've-been-up-all-night-imagining-Tristan-naked appearance.

  "Coffee," she told herself. Her voice cracked and her mouth watered in homage to the beverage. "I need coffee." Then, God help her, she'd talk to Tristan about Peter.

  Just thinking about the upcoming conversation caused her stomach to churn with anxiety. She tried to ignore the discomfort and told herself there was no reason to agonize. She had a plan, after all. She was going to treat Tristan as sweet as a brownie-fudge sundae with extra whipped cream. She'd use lots of smiles and a gentle tone of voice.

  How could he refuse her?

  How could he not?

  Focus, Julia. You can do this. You can. Determination pushing her onward, she wound her still-damp hair in a ponytail, shimmied into a pair of beige dress slacks and a white, button-down shirt, and strode to the door.

  Sweet as a sundae, sweet as a sundae, sweet as a sundae…

  Two steps into the hall, her foot hit a large, immobile object. She plummeted face first and landed with a thud on the hardwood floor. Air shot from her lungs like a Fourth of July rocket. Dazed, she shook her head, blinked her eyes several times. Finally she recaptured her breath and her vision cleared. When she focused, she realized Tristan's sword lay just in front of her, glistening menacingly.

  "Julia," he said, concern tinging his voice. "Speak to me. Tell me you are unharmed."

  "What the hell are you doing on the floor?" She glared up at him. "I told you to sleep in the guest bedroom."

  "Nay, you said the guest chamber is mine, not that I had to sleep there."

  "Why do you still have your sword? You were supposed to put it up."

  "And just where am I to place such a large weapon in such a small home?"

  "In your box."

  "Is that an order?"

  "A request."

  "'Tis the same, really." His lips dipped into a fierce frown and as she watched, the air around the sword wavered, thickened like dappled water, and then the silver metal vanished in a puff of smoke. "Done," he said.

  She should have been shocked by the disappearing act, but she was too relieved. She vaulted to her feet, keeping her gaze locked with his. This was not the way she imagined them starting the day. Sweet as a sundae, remember? Except, now the whipped cream was splayed across the floor. She forced herself to smile, as if practically slicing herself in half was an everyday occurrence.

  "We have to talk." Gentle voice. "There's something I need to ask you."

  "My attention is yours." He stood with his legs braced apart, arms folded. A prebattle stance, she was sure. "You may begin."

  Running a hand down the length of her ponytail, she mentally catalogued her planned speech. She drew in a deep breath and then slowly released each molecule of air. "In America, when a man and woman are attracted to each other, they begin to date. Dating might include a romantic dinner, followed by a walk on the beach, or a—"

  "Halt there, little dragon," he said, silencing her words. "We must eat ere you lecture me, for I am in desperate need of sustenance."

  She frowned. "I'll have you know I do not lecture. I simply state facts."

  "These facts can be stated after we dine."

  True, but her nervous system might collapse by then. Still she muttered, "Of course," like a good little brownie sundae.

  In the kitchen, beams of sunlight filtered through the large bay window, enveloping the room in a cheerful ring. She grabbed a blueberry muffin from the counter and turned, holding out the offering like a priceless treasure. "Here you go… " Her words tapered to quiet. A shaft of light illuminated Tristan's hair, creating a glossy halo around his face. He was Hercules come to life just then, only he had a bigger… well, a bigger everything.

  How sickening, she thought, that one man could be so gorgeous.

  "I thank you," he said, accepting the muffin.

  Sighing, she pivoted to the coun
ter and began her morning ritual. Fill coffeepot with water. Drain water into percolator. Scoop grounds.

  "Sit," Tristan ordered. He set his muffin aside and pried the coffee tin from her hands—an action no one else had ever done and lived to tell the tale. His fingertips brushed her palm, causing shafts of electricity to rush up her arm. "I shall do this duty."

  She gulped and pulled away. "Do you know how to make coffee?"

  His features lit with wry amusement. "The knowledge I gained on other planets far surpasses that of Am-erica."

  "Your knowledge stems from almost a century ago," she pointed out.

  "That is sufficient."

  "So you know what to do?"

  "I have traveled the ages, little dragon. I can manage to concoct one morning beverage."

  Okay, then. Without another word, Julia plopped down on the stool behind the counter. Her new position gave her a better view, anyway. Crossing and uncrossing her legs, she watched the corded muscles of Tristan's stomach tighten with every move he made. She watched the way his nipples puckered in the cool, early morning air. Then she watched him saunter across the tile barefoot and stop at the faucet, revealing his naked back.

  She gasped. To cover the sound, she uttered a quick cough. Thankfully he didn't seem to notice, and she was able to study his back in more detail. Thick, jagged scars laced every inch of flesh. Some intersected, some stood alone, but all of them were badges of pain. She'd noticed the slight marks on his chest, but these… What had he suffered?

  As she studied his back more intently, she noticed a small tattoo rested on the upper left side of his shoulder blade. A black symbol, almost Oriental in appearance, utterly provocative and endearingly sexy. Another tattoo, very similar in appearance, decorated the curve of his lower back and dipped past his pants.

  "What do those symbols mean?"

  He glanced at her over his shoulder. "Conquer and destroy."

  How appropriate.

  "Do you usually rise this early?" he asked.

  She tore her attention from his back and glanced at the wall clock. Six-thirty. "Today is a work day. I have to get up early."