Tempted Tigress (24 page)

She shivered, her belly and shoulders shaking first, but then the wave expanded through her whole body. It felt so good and so... new. She could feel him smile against her thigh. She thought she remembered what came next. But he wasn't moving, wasn't doing anything, and she frowned in confusion.

"What are you thinking?" he asked, his voice a low murmur near her belly.

She opened her eyes. He had raised up on her body, though he kept her legs spread. "I—I am wondering." He arched an eyebrow in question, and she stammered out an explanation. "I don't... I mean, what do you... I mean, what happens next?"

He paused. "You have never done this before?"

She shook her head, her eyes blurring with tears of shame. "I have. I just... I mean..."

"You were smoking and you don't remember. Did you even agree?"

She closed her eyes, wetness slipping down her cheek. How to explain? "I don't remember," she finally confessed. She didn't know why she told him the truth. It was all part of the strange hold he had over her. She wanted to talk to him, to challenge him, to... do things with him. Why was he so different?

He twisted, shifting so that he sat beside her, and his gaze was infinitely gentle. Though one of his hands abandoned her, the other slid to the outside of her thigh to rest there, to warm her skin, to remind her of what was to come.

She should have hated his hand there. She was certainly very aware of it. It felt proprietary, as if he would brand her with his large palm high on the outside of her right thigh, fingers spread, gently wrapping around her leg toward her hip bone. She should have hated it, but she didn't. She liked the way he touched her: a simple presence, without pressure or demand. It linked the two of them, created a connection for whatever moments they had together. In truth, it felt... loving; and she found herself raising up to look at his hand and her thigh.

"Relax. Enjoy. I promise you will remember tonight."

"I..." How to tell him she didn't want to remember? Except, looking at his hand, large and strong on her thigh, perhaps she did. She lifted her gaze until she met his eyes. His expression was gentle. More important, it was steady. His eyes didn't flicker, his hand didn't tremble. He simply looked at her, waiting. For what, she wasn't sure. But within moments, she was smiling at him, anticipating what was to come, not dreading it.

"I do not think of opium when I am with you." She spoke the words with surprise.

He grinned. "That is most excellent." Then he leaned forward to place his mouth on hers.

She met his lips with her own, feeling a tingle of fire spread through her mouth. She inhaled on a gasp, but didn't pull away. He extended his tongue, stroking across her lips in a single long caress.

She remembered other kisses: fumbled, wet, off center and of little interest. This was different. She felt a shiver of delight and the slow spread of desire. Her belly clenched, her toes curled, and she wanted to know more.

She pressed forward, opening her mouth to his invasion. She felt her lips thin against her teeth and she arched her neck to give him better access. But he did not deepen the kiss. Instead, he simply rubbed his lips across hers.

The tingling was fading, replaced by the heat of friction and her own confusion. Was she doing this wrong? He gave no clue until impatience made her bold. She extended her tongue to touch his lips, to push into his mouth, to... To be sucked and tugged on by him. Surprise had her pulling back, and he narrowed his teeth to slightly abrade her tongue as she withdrew.

They separated enough for her to stare at him, her thoughts spinning wildly. He merely grinned and waited, but words would not coalesce. In the end, she merely lifted back to his mouth, wrapping an arm around his shoulders to draw herself higher—closer—to him.

Their mouths met again, and this time she did not hesitate to push her tongue out, to stroke it against his teeth, to thrust and toy. Soon she was sitting upright in her pursuit of him, and found she liked meeting him on an equal plane. Or perhaps not so equal as she pressed even further forward, raising herself higher than him.

He allowed it for a time, playing at submission, teasing her with his tongue even as she plundered him. Then he began working on another front. She felt his free hand working the clasps at her shoulder and neck. He started at the top notch of her collar, slipping a finger beneath the tight silk. She hadn't been aware of the restriction of fabric too small for her white chest, but she was now. She wanted it off, she wanted to breathe fully, she wanted to know if he could set her whole torso to tingling.

With the thought came the result. Her nipples tightened, and the fire in her mouth spread—she was dimly aware—to her breasts. She broke from his mouth to undo the frogs that fastened her
chong san.
Her fingers moved quickly, her hands steady, and she stopped a moment to stare at them. Her hands were steady. She was in complete control of her body and her mind!

She looked up at him. He too had stopped, his gaze intent on her face. This was significant—this total control—but why? She didn't want to answer, but how to stop her thoughts?

He caught her right hand in his and slowly drew it to his mouth. While she watched, he curled his tongue around her finger, straightening it, then sucking it in. He still held her hand, his thumb slipping inside her curved fingers to rub circles across her palm. And all the while he sucked on her finger, pulling it deep into his mouth before using his hand to draw it out. Or nearly out. And then he would suck it back in again.

In and out, in and out.

She knew what he simulated; she understood that much of the sex act. And yet, she felt her whole body tighten with sensation. Her thoughts were gone, lost in the circle of his thumb and the wet slide of her finger.

His hand left her thigh to release the last clasps of her blouse, this one down by her waist. His hand stroked across her belly, opening the fabric to allow air to flow in a narrow channel from her navel up between her breasts all the way to her chin. At last she could breathe. She inhaled deeply, feeling the silk rub against her breasts. Simultaneously, she moved her finger across his tongue, brushing the texture there. He mimicked the action with his free hand as he brushed the blouse open. He widened the channel from her belly upward, fluttering strokes from the center outward as the fabric fell away.

Her belly quivered as she imagined his caress to be the gentle stroke of a Chinese brush. He was writing things on her skin; he was marking her as his, he was... Then he pulled his hand upward, between her breasts. His fingers widened as he painted fire across the top of her breast and upward over her shoulder.

The fabric of her clothes peeled away as he moved, but he could not draw it past her bent elbow. He returned to the beginning, at her belly, and touched her other side, pushing away the fabric there.

The tight silk pinned Anna's arms behind her, making her arch her back, lifting her breasts to him. She expected him to look down, but he did not. His gaze remained locked with hers as he sucked her finger deep inside his mouth one last time. Then he slowly pulled it out.

Cold hit her finger, and the wetness glistened in the candlelight. Then he drew her hand down. She broke away from his eyes to watch what he did with her finger. He drew it down to her own breast, pressing it to her taut nipple. He moved her finger to stroke and flick there.

Her breath caught as lightning streaked from her nipple to her womb, but he did not stop. He continued to move her finger across her own nipple, circling, flicking, even pressing the edge of her nail into the tight edge. She stared, mesmerized. He was making her hand a brush, just like his had been. He made her write characters into her skin, her own words, as if he helped her create herself.

"Do you remember when you touched yourself in your bath? I was watching," he said. "Never have I seen anything more—"

He said a word in Chinese that she did not know. She echoed it.

He shook his head. "I do not know the right word in English," he murmured. "Sensuous. Beautiful." Then his other hand lifted to cup her other breast. She felt his fingers extend, support, touch. His thumb drew a line from her breastbone up to her nipple. He rolled his thumb there, flicking, scraping, even pinching against his forefinger while she closed her eyes to better appreciate the sensations he created.

"Tell me what you feel."

"Everything," she answered, awe suffusing her soul. Everything was so... present and so different.

"Tell me," he pressed.

"T-the one side is cold," she stammered, struggling to form words. "The other... so full. You make it feel light, and hot. And..."

"Good?"

"Great."

"Keep talking," he said. "I love the sound of your voice." Then he bent his head to her right breast to put his mouth on it.

She felt his hair first, the soft brush of black silk. It was tied back in a Manchu queue, but the thick braid fell forward to stroke her shoulder where his breath had not touched. Then that sensation was lost amid the wet of his mouth, the stroke of his tongue, and the gentle pulsing suction on her nipple.

Then he pulled back. "Tell me!"

She shook her head. "There's so much!" But she tried nevertheless. "My chest... my breath... it's so tight. My heart is beating and beating."

He lifted his lips off her breast to press a kiss against her throat. "Here?" he whispered, and she imagined her pulse trembling against his lips.

"Yes," she whispered. "But my nipple is cold again. My breast feels blank without you." The words made no sense, but he somehow understood. He returned his mouth to her breast and began sucking again.

She spoke without prompting, her thoughts rambling but exciting. They clarified what she felt, narrowed her thoughts to him and her. To what he did.

"The suction... it is like the beat of another heart. Your heart. Strong, it draws me in. It takes me to you. All of me. I feel each pull in my breast. In my belly. Even my toes curl with what you're doing."

He lifted up and she saw his grin flash above her.

"Touch yourself," he commanded, once again pressing her hand to her own breast. "Pinch. And pull."

She did as he instructed, seeing his eyes widen and his nostrils flare. His face hovered just above her hand.

"I love seeing you clearly," he murmured. Then he glanced back to her face. "I will reward you if you say something very inventive."

She stilled in surprise. "What?"

He didn't clarify, but she understood nevertheless. And as extra incentive, he flicked her nipple with his tongue—a quick nip to make her gasp and arch her back, begging for more. Then he dropped a kiss on her hand, the one that still cupped her left breast. "Don't stop that either," he said. "I want to see what you do to yourself."

She had no idea what to say, how to respond to him. So she did as he bade her, massaged her own breast, squeezing the nipple, even offering the tip to him. He watched with an avid expression, his breath whispering so lightly across her other breast, his lips barely touching her skin.

"Say something," he ordered.

She let her head drop back, her mind spinning. "I want to stay here," she whispered.

She felt his expression shift, felt the way his eyebrows lifted as he turned more fully to her breast. "Very good," he murmured. And as a reward, he flicked his tongue over her nipple again. She gasped and arched, stunned by how her entire body reacted to him.

"For years now, I have wanted to leave China," she said. "I think that is why I take opium. It is a way of leaving, you know."

He nodded, and she felt the coarse brush of his chin stubble on the edge of her breast. Then he curled his tongue around her nipple and pulled it into his mouth. She waited for him to begin sucking, but he did not.

"Right now, I don't want to leave. I want you to keep... to touch..." She swallowed. "Please suck on my breasts."

He did. It was a rhythmic pull that had her arching against him. And when her other hand stilled, he tapped it with his fingers, reminding her. Her stomach quivered in response, and her womb tightened. As she began to time her pinches with his pulls, she felt a wetness in her core. She wanted to spread her legs wide open, but her skirt pulled awkwardly at her hip.

"I want my skirt off. It is too tight."

He left her breast to lick tiny strokes down her belly. "Have you ever been fully naked before a man?"

She shook her head, then started to giggle. "I guess I'm a kind of virgin after all." He stopped kissing her then, his body frozen as he considered her words.

She felt her face heat, appalled by her brazen words. She lifted her hands, intending to push him away; she'd had no wish to expose her wretchedness. But he stopped her by pressing a long, almost clumsy kiss into her belly. And when he lifted up, he smiled at her. "That was the best thing you have said to me tonight. And for that, you will be richly rewarded."

So saying, he easily untied the twisted fabric of her skirt, lifting it up and away. He moved so quickly that before she could do more than take a breath, she was completely naked. Her belly quivered from the cool brush of air, which felt wonderful on her overheated skin.

"You are beautiful," he breathed. "Like ivory kissed by candlelight."