MasterofSilk (4 page)

Yes, he’d pushed her limits and uttered innuendoes that made
him cringe, but he’d reached the height of the evening when he praised another
dancer.

The look she gave him was enough to poison and he knew firsthand,
from dealing with his father’s several wives and their daughters, how women
vied for the attention of their master…and how to use that jealousy for
personal gain.

Not that he had any intention of taking another woman to his
bed—not when the lovely Silk pleased him so readily. But it never hurt to make
a woman think she had competition, especially if it meant she went out of her
way to obey.

He would not let her see him tomorrow night, think he had
not come to watch her dance. That was another part of his plan to make her beg
for his favor, but he would send her a gift, along with another invitation.

He leaned back in the back of the limo and spread his legs
as his cock raised its head in attention, enjoying the desire that throbbed in
his blood, one hand idly smoothing along its length.

The sound of her cries echoed in his ears, along with the
jingle of the tiny golden bells as he thrust himself between her legs,
demanding her complete submission.

It would be a glorious night.

Isabella spent every spare second of the next evening
getting ready to dance. She flat-ironed her hair into sleek perfection, which
caused its hints of color to pop. She ate dinner in bites between straightening
her hair and applying her eye makeup before she headed to her closet and
rummaged through her belly-dance costumes.

She didn’t want Zayne to think she had gone completely out
of her way to impress him—which she had—but after hearing him go on and on
about the other dancers’ attributes over last night’s dinner, she was bound and
determined to give him something worth talking about.

It had taken every ounce of strength she could muster not to
comment on Zayne’s outrageous claims of the other girls’ skills and even more
not to mention or compare them to a dancer she knew called Silk who was so much
better than all the others and possibly give her secret away.

Or look as if Dr. Seda was jealous of the other woman’s
looks and grace.

She opted to wear a black tribal skirt hemmed in purple.
With a twenty-five-yard sweep, the skirt had a life of its own and could be
manipulated by hand to add even more distinction to her performance.

In keeping with tribal tradition she put on a belt with
rainbow-colored tassels, tucking her skirt into it on the sides so it framed
her hips perfectly. A simple black top tied in the front completed her clothing
and her veil was of the same rich purple as the hem of her skirt. The entire
effect was set off by layers of bangles and bracelets on her arms, along with
ankle bells that rang with every step of her feet.

When Isabella arrived at the Oasis she didn’t even sneak a
peek from the stage. She didn’t want Zayne to get a glimpse of her before her
number began. She’d notified the band she wanted a
chiftetelli
, slow and
sensuous to showcase her undulations and delicate hip work.

When her music started, she whirled onto the stage, knowing
she looked her very best, willing Zayne’s eyes upon her with every step she
took. For long moments she lost herself in the rhythm of the music, closing her
eyes and imagining there was no one else in the room but her and her sultan,
the desert a vast and empty space around them, as if they were the only two
people in the world and her dance was meant for him alone.

She didn’t mingle with the crowd as she danced and she could
see little of the room with the lights in her eyes, but she knew he was
watching, could feel his gaze upon her as she whirled and spun and dropped to
the floor as the song reached its close.

The applause was thunderous when she finished but she paid
little heed to the whistles and zips around her as she stood. She was looking
for a single face—the only man whose approval she craved as if her life
depended on it.

He was nowhere to be found. His table was empty and pushed
to the wall and she couldn’t catch a single glimpse of him in the throng of
people at the back of the room. Disappointment hit like an ax to her chest,
robbing her of breath and joy as she realized Zayne was nowhere near.

Forcing herself to bend and pick up the pile of money tossed
at her feet—it wouldn’t be fair to the food bank if she let her pride make her
selfish—Isabella took a last bow, disappeared behind the stage and gathered up
her things, suddenly so tired she could barely manage to move.

It was only as she made her way down the street to her car
that she heard Shamal come running up behind her.

“Silk. Silk,” he called. “Wait, please.” Isabella turned to
see him carrying a beautiful box wrapped in crimson-colored paper. “Mr. Saladar
left this for you with stern instructions you receive it tonight.” His voice
said he would do nothing to risk Zayne’s continued benevolence and patronage.

Isabella took the box and forced herself to remain calm as
she placed it in the backseat before thanking Shamal as he grinned and went
back to work. Barely able to keep from stopping along the way and tearing into
the present, she drove home quickly, poured herself a glass of wine and took
the package to her couch, where she made herself take the time to admire the
exquisite wrapping.

Then she ripped it to shreds in her haste to see what Zayne
had tucked inside.

She gasped as she uncovered the first of the treasures, a
filigreed gold necklace trimmed with bells—an exact match to the chain that
held the tiny clamps he’d used at the Red Mask club.

Her nipples hardened instantly as she remembered him
fastening the clamps around them, a pleasure so intense it bordered on pain.
And when he’d fastened another clamp around her clit…

Isabella groaned and sucked down a gulp of wine, squeezing
her legs together as the ache between them blossomed hard and fast. Resisting
the urge to touch herself, she put on the necklace and dug back into the box,
pulling out an outfit that would have made her grandmother shriek.

The top was nothing more than a vest of red silk that
fastened beneath her breasts, with sheer sleeves that would flutter down her
arms. The skirt—if it could be called that—was another band of ruby silk from
which hung several panels of red chiffon, leaving absolutely nothing to the
imagination.

And on a card—written in what Isabella was certain was Zayne’s
own hand—was a request for her to meet him again on Saturday, wearing nothing
but what was in the box.

All her determination to keep from seeing Zayne on a
physical and personal level went flying out the window as she thought of him
touching her, his hands reaching between her thighs, his mouth doing
unspeakably wicked things as he spread her legs apart and drove his tongue into
her body.

She would meet him one last time, she determined. One last
time to thank him for the gifts, to demand why he hadn’t shown up to watch her
dance…and to feel his body pressed to hers. Then she would be satisfied.

At least she hoped so.

* * * * *

Zayne had deliberately hidden himself from view when Silk
took the stage. He’d planned on twisting her emotions up another notch after
his praise of another dancer the night before but he’d realized he’d made a
mistake as soon as she’d started to dance.

She was glorious, mesmerizing, a
houri
come to life. As
he’d watched he’d been forced to acknowledge he was livid that any other man
had dared set eyes upon her.

He knew it was brutish, knew it was wrong, but he’d been
unable to stop the flood of fury that rushed into his soul. It was the way of
the desert. It was the way of the land. It was the way of his people for
hundreds of generations…

And it was what continued to keep women bound in slavery and
pain.

Unable to shake off the knowledge of his betrayal Zayne had
his driver take him to the Battery, where he walked along the edge of the sea,
hoping the rush of the waves and water would clear the darkness from his heart.

Oh she would be punished, well and truly spanked for her
seductive display, but it would be for both their pleasure—not in anger or with
intent to harm.

And as he imagined her begging him for release, pictured her
screaming his name in her need, he felt himself return to civilization, his
heart scoured clean and his intellect intact.

Now he could sleep with a guiltless conscience as he
patiently waited for the new day to arrive.

* * * * *

By the time Saturday night rolled around Isabella was
already shaking, so aching with need she could barely manage to walk without a
whimper as her thighs slid unhindered against each other beneath the scandalous
skirt. Her breasts were another study in desire as they rubbed against the
cloak she’d worn to keep from getting arrested as she made her way to the Red
Mask Society.

Madame Manette was there to greet her as always, making
certain her beautiful mask was firmly put in place before leaving her once more
inside the ballroom doors.

But this time Zayne was not waiting by the stairs, nor was
he standing near the bar, or anywhere else she could see among the crowd that
flowed from wall to wall.

Several men studied her as they passed—some in masks as
elaborate as her own, others not wearing any, but all of them having the same
feral energy. These were men who understood their power and would not hesitate
to use it. Men who knew how to seduce a woman with a single expert glance. Isabella
was not immune to the heated looks that came her way.

The entire room radiated sex, as if the combined desires of
all the members had taken on a life of their own, forging a web of erotic
tendrils that permeated everything. It tucked itself under her cloak to skim
along the surface of her skin before it drove itself into the very core of her
desire.

Suddenly she saw couples entwined in every corner, their
whispered cries of passion adding fuel to her already-simmering fire.

Where in the hell was Zayne Saladar?

Where were his hands? Where were his lips? And where was his
beautifully unmarred cock, ready to burst from its dusky skin for her pleasure?

When one of the cocktail servers handed her an envelope that
instructed Isabella to meet Zayne in his room she hurried down the hallway,
heart hammering in wild anticipation, more than ready to obey his every
command.

Zayne was already so hard he could barely think when he
heard her tentative knock on the door. But he forced himself to wait until she
knocked again, louder this time, showing she was just as ready for their night
to begin.

“Come.” He was curious to see how she’d reacted to his
absence the night before, more than willing to punish her if she had refused to
wear the present he’d sent her. Or if she showed any sign of rebellion.

The thought of her bent across his bed, her legs spread, her
ass bared for whatever he desired, sent a surge of blood rushing to his cock,
the greedy beast raising its head even higher.

Then his dancer stood before him in all her dark beauty, the
need in her eyes a match for his as she caught his glance across the room.

“Ah.” He sat straighter in his chair, unbolting his robe as
she glided toward him, pleased when he heard her sharp intake of breath as she
saw the swollen mass of his flesh. “Show me,” he told her when she made no move
to take off her cloak, enjoying the knowledge that he would punish her for the
hesitation. “Now.”

He rose from his chair as she continued to hold the
concealing cloak around her.

With fumbling fingers she finally managed to unhook the
clasp, letting the mass of material fall to the floor. He grunted in
satisfaction, circling around her to study the effect from all sides, finding
no fault in her rounded breasts, stomach and thighs. Such flesh was made for a
man to take his fill of, pillows that cushioned each thrust of his hips, soft
enough he could ride her as hard as he desired, not fearing he’d hurt her with
bone jarring bone.

She trembled when he stepped behind her, his arms closing
around her waist to test the weight of her breasts in his palms. Her nipples
were already knotted into dusky peaks of flesh but he refused to touch them,
despite her whimper of need.

Instead he ran his hands down her stomach, her skin as
smooth as what she was named, halting just at the juncture of her thighs. She
spread her legs automatically but he smacked her rounded ass soundly.

“I did not give you permission to move.” He shook his head
as he circled to stand before her once more. “That is twice you have disobeyed
me.”

“Twice?” She was full of female outrage as she raised her
eyes to his, lowering them instantly when she saw he would be unrelenting in
his punishment.

“Three times,” he purred. He watched her tremble as he
reached for the golden clamps and held them aloft, the scent of her arousal
rising full and sweet in the air around them. If he touched her now she would
already be wet and waiting, but he had no intention of taking her so soon.

She continued to shake as he fastened one end of the chain
to the collar around her neck. “This shows you belong to me and only me.”
Taking pity on her obvious need, he fondled her breasts once more, rolling the
plump nipples between his fingers until she bit her lip to keep from crying
out. “Scream, little one. There is no one to hear you but me.”

Still she refused to make a sound as he fastened a clamp
around one nipple before moving on to the next. Not that he thought she was in
any real pain as she closed her eyes and whimpered. The clamps could be used
for punishment if necessary, but for now they were intended only to enhance her
pleasure.

Then he ordered her to spread her legs as he knelt before
her. When she finally managed to obey her thighs quivered as if they would grow
weak and let her slide helplessly to the floor. But his slave was made of
sterner stuff, her muscles strong enough to hold her captive as he spread her
sex, his fingers delving high into her cunt. Now she moaned with the force of
her need, the sound as delightful as the bells of her chains when he took the
final clamp and closed it around her clit.

She was perfect, Zayne decided as he stood to inspect his
handiwork. Beautiful in her chains of gold, their tiny bells jingling with
every shake of her body and intake of breath. With a sinful smile he tugged on
the chain, knowing it would bring another cry of pleasure from her throat. He
sat back in his chair to watch the show.

“Dance for me,” he ordered. His smile grew when he saw her
eyes widen in shock. “Dance for me and do not come until I give you permission.”
Zayne wondered if she might refuse his command, but she nodded mutely and
shimmied, graceful beyond measure, obeying his orders as if she’d been born into
his service.