White Tigress (17 page)

"Do you like it?" she asked, unable to stop herself. Women dressed to attract their men. If Ru Shan liked it, then she knew she had a good design.

"Yes." He said the word flatly, as if confused. But then he looked up, straightening to his full height. "I wish to keep these."

She stared at him in surprise. He was clearly asking her permission, though the question was phrased as a statement. "They are just drawings," she said slowly.

"Nevertheless."

She smiled at his stiff phrasing. Clearly, he was unused to asking permission for anything from a woman. So she smiled, nodding regally to him. "Then of course you must have them."

"You must show me any of your other sketches."

She settled back on the bed beside him. "But those are all I have."

"Then draw more."

Her eyes narrowed as she considered him, wondering at his sudden interest. "Your shop. It adds designs to cloth. Do you also make clothing?"

He nodded. "Of course. We employ many seamstresses."

"You want to use my designs to make clothing."

She watched his eyes widen in surprise at her understanding, and she nearly laughed out loud. Many of her friends had asked her to design clothing specifically for them. That he would want to use her talents in his business was not a large leap. And in the end, he confirmed her thought.

"I will allow my customers to see your sketches. If they like the designs, then we will sew them."

"You need more than just the rough sketch. You need directions for the seamstress."

He nodded. "Can you do those as well?"

She smiled. "Of course. I have done it many times." She leaned back, focusing all her attention on his face, making sure she made her next point clearly. Loudly. "Which makes me very similar to your mother, does it not? She created embroidery designs that you sold at great profit. And I have designed clothing that you will sell—"

"No one has purchased anything yet!" he snapped, clearly irritated by her suggestion.

"But my designs have been copied throughout England," she lied. In truth, some people had copied her gown designs. Others had called them ridiculous in the extreme. But she felt no guilt at her claim if it would make her seem more human to him.

"This is not England," he snapped. Then he left her side, roughly pulling open the door and calling Fu De. Lydia could not follow their rapid exchange of Shanghainese, but she guessed what was happening anyway. Especially as Fu De bowed, then carefully took her sketches. After a quick, surprised look in her direction, he rushed out of the flat.

Lydia shifted on the bed to lean back against the wall. "He is taking my pictures to your shop. To show to your customers."

Ru Shan nodded, carefully closing the door before returning to the bed. But he did not sit. Instead, he began stripping off his jacket. "It is time," he said firmly, "for you to learn about yang."

She had been relaxed, feeling a bit smug at her progress. But at his words, a shiver of terror slid down her spine. Exactly what was he going to do? What would she have to do? He didn't make her wait long. Indeed, his motions were brisk, almost as if he, too, felt uncomfortable about what would happen next, but was determined to see it through. It seemed impossible to her, and yet, as he continued to strip off his clothing, she saw the soft blush of embarrassment heating his skin. Then she had few thoughts at all as he continued to disrobe.

Before long, he stood before her completely naked, his hairless body displayed openly before her.

"Look all you want," he said, his voice somewhat constricted. "And then you must touch."

Her gaze flew to his face in shock. She was supposed to touch him? Where? Then, even more shocking, he began to slowly turn, letting her see him from all sides.

At first she could not get past her surprise. But then curiosity took root. She had seen her father's anatomy book. She knew about bones and muscles and what parts of the body went where. But lithographs and charcoal sketches were nothing compared to seeing a man in the living flesh. Especially a man with so little fat upon him. Indeed, as she reached out to trace the contours of his back, she could see the curve of each muscle. A few of them even rippled beneath her fingertips.

His skin was so different, and yet so similar to her own. Maxwell called the Chinese yellow-skinned, but Ru Shan did not seem yellow so much as vellum. A fine, warm paper, mellowed with age, on which was written the power and strength of an entire race of people—if only she had the intelligence to read it. Next to him, her skin seemed pale and insubstantial. Like the ghost he sometimes called her.

He began to turn, and she let her hands slide with his movements. When she had put both her hands upon him, she did not know. But she used them now to measure the breadth of his shoulders—a good eight or nine inches wider than her own—and the circumference of his biceps.

"You are strong," she said softly, startled by the truth of her statement. His clothing did not hide lax, flaccid muscles, but a body rippling with power.

"Fabric is heavy. It builds a strong back."

No wonder she hadn't been able to escape him during their earlier struggles. He was much more powerful than she had ever guessed.

She let her hands flow over his collarbone, feeling the solidity. She used it as an anchor, pausing there to steady her breath before letting her hands slide lower, over his chest. She didn't wonder why she felt so breathless, attributing it to the excitement of seeing such a beautiful man up close. Still, she needed a moment to calm herself before stepping back a bare inch or so, in order to give herself a better view.

His chest was broad, the skin smooth. He felt warmer than silk, and now that she stood this close, Lydia smelled his scent as well. Musk and sandalwood together. She closed her eyes and inhaled deeply, barely even realizing she was memorizing it.

Her hands slipped lower, over the hard nub of his nipples. She stopped a moment there, seeing how his body puckered as hers had, only smaller. Firmer. Glancing up, she looked into his dark eyes. "Should I suck on them, as you do to me? Will that release your yang?"

His face seemed taut with tension, but his voice was smooth and steady. "It will release some, but not much. The breasts are the centers of yin, and so you will likely drain off the yin I have collected from you."

"Oh," she said softly, and she rubbed her nail back and forth across his nub. It felt surprisingly like the raised portion of the snap fastener so popular with Americans. And yet it was more pliable, and so much more intriguing. Without even thinking about it, she found herself circling his nipples as he'd done hers, and she wondered if he felt the same tug of power within him that she experienced when he touched her.

Then she slowed her fingers, thinking back over what he had said about the breasts being the center of yin. "I suppose I should not do that."

"No," he agreed, his voice deepening as he spoke.

She nodded, but her attention was already wandering lower. Her hands skimmed over his ribs, narrowing into the hollow of his stomach and the tight muscles of his belly. He must have seen where her gaze took her, because he gently pressed upon her shoulders.

"Sit," he urged, and she complied, dropping somewhat heavily upon the bed.

This, of course, brought her eye level with the most astounding sight she had ever seen. He was hairless here, though she saw a kind of shadow on his skin and wondered if he'd shaved. It must be difficult to wield a razor there, she thought with a frown. He would have to avoid the... item that stood hard and long right there in the way.

And such an item it was. Flushed a dark red, it thrust upward like a thick arrow made of flesh. It jiggled slightly as he breathed and even had a tiny bead of moisture on the very tip.

"This is a man's jade dragon," he said. "It is very sensitive, so it must be handled with careful respect."

She tilted her head to one side, even holding out her hand with the fingers spread wide. But she did not touch it yet. She was measuring the length of his dragon, and thinking of the pictures she had seen in her father's anatomy text.

"Are all men so long?" she asked. "If so, I fear I have miscalculated in the design of men's trousers."

"Your designs are fine. I have performed many exercises to straighten my dragon. Unfortunately, that means it has also lengthened."

She glanced up at his face, wondering at the trace of humor in his voice. Or perhaps it was pride, she wasn't sure. Either way, his expression did not hold her attention for long. She was soon looking again at his organ. "You are too long?"

"A dragon's best length is that which matches exactly his woman's cinnabar cave. It is one of the requirements when seeking a tigress with whom to practice." He paused. "I have not found a woman yet who matches me completely."

"What of Shi Po? Isn't she your mentor?"

He sighed and shook his head. "Shi Po and I do not match in this manner, and so we have been unable to perform certain exercises. I believe it has hindered my advancement significantly."

"Perhaps you will find one soon," she responded. "Then you will no longer need me for more yin."

He did not answer, and she did not press him. The thought of him with a suitable tigress was not one she wished to dwell upon. Instead, she hunched herself lower, looking at the sac beneath his dragon. She recalled such from her studies in her father's book, but she did not know its purpose. Fortunately, he answered her questions before she could even phrase them.

"That is the base of the dragon, sometimes called his house. It is the center of yang essence and where my yang fire begins."

"Then it must be released from there?"

"No. It is where the fire begins." Then she felt him extend his hand, lifting her chin to look directly at him. "A man is built differently than a woman. A woman's fire builds, lifting naturally to her breasts and to her mind. But nature directs a man's fire outward, spending it uselessly outside his body. It is the work of the tigress to build a man's fire, then stop it from flowing outward. This takes much focus and control on the man's part, but with practice, it can be directed upward, to the mind. If enough yang and yin combine, that energy will flow upward launching him into immortality."

She merely stared at him, trying to understand his words.

"Do not worry," he soothed. "You do not need to understand this to help me."

"But I do understand," she finally said. "You wish me to build your yang fire so that it can heat your mind. And when that happens—"

"It cannot be done alone. It must combine with yin."

She nodded. "When it has combined—"

"And the fire is hot enough."

"Then you will become immortal?"

He nodded, a surprised smile on his face. "Yes. The exact manner in which the combination takes place is unknown. Many have ideas, and there are mental images we use to encourage the process. But you understand the essentials."

"So a tigress would build your fire but prevent its expulsion from your body." She frowned. "How is this done?"

"When a tigress knows that the fire is about to erupt, she presses on two places. The first is the dragon's mouth." He reached down and demonstrated, using his thumb and forefinger to squeeze closed the tiny hole at the tip of his dragon. "She also presses upon the
jen-mo
point. It is here, behind the dragon's home. It is exactly where the cinnabar cave is located on a woman." So saying, he lifted up his dragon home to give her a better view.

She tried to see, but it was in shadow, and no matter how much she twisted her head, she could not understand where he meant. At her sigh of exasperation, he reached out with his free hand for hers.

"You must press it now, Li Dee. I will tell you when you find it exactly."

"Touch it?" she practically squeaked. "Now?"

He smiled encouragingly. "Yes, now. Otherwise, how will you know what you are to do?"

"Of course," she said, mostly to herself. "How else will I know?"

And so, with his hand to guide her, she reached forward, between his legs. But her aim was not accurate, and her hand touched the side of his thigh. She had no more than brushed against him, but he jumped back as if burned.

"Your hand is very cold, Li Dee," he said by way of explanation.

She looked down at her hands, sympathy rising inside her. "Oh. Sorry."

"Rub your hands together."

She did, but her skin remained ice cold. "I cannot get them to warm up."

"Let me." And so he pressed her hands between his two larger ones. His heat was like a blast furnace, surrounding her and sending a shiver of appreciation all the way down her spine.

"Your hands are smaller than I expected. For some reason I thought all English were larger."

She smiled, her entire body warming under his attention. "Some of us are. But some of us aren't. The English like long fingers, and I am afraid I never quite grew enough."

He shifted his grip, adjusting his hands so that he cradled hers. "Your hands have an excellent shape. Usually water people have doughy hands that look plump like a water-filled sack. But your hands are narrower, without the plumpness of water. This means you have gold in your body and that your art may make a great deal of money."