Tempted Tigress (7 page)

"Here!" His friend rushed forward, dropping onto his knees then flat onto the deck in a kowtow. The action was completely appropriate for a servant, but the look of annoyance was not.

"What have you been doing?" Zhi-Gang demanded.

"What you ordered, master! Water for the bath. Silks for a gown." He dared lift his head then. He didn't speak, but his face clearly showed confusion.

Zhi-Gang squinted, trying to discern the details of his friend's face. He dropped his voice to a near whisper. "What were you doing?"

Jing-Li straightened his arms, lifting his torso off the deck. "What I do best." When Zhi-Gang didn't speak, he finally confessed the truth. "Watching," he hissed.

Zhi-Gang frowned, trying to understand. When he did, he felt a total fool. Of course there were peepholes in the tiny hut at the top of the boat; the walls were made of bamboo mats! Of course Jing-Li would find the gaps and peer into Zhi-Gang's bedchamber. That's what Jing-Li did: He spied. And thanks to that talent, they were now on this mission to a southern port and not dead or imprisoned with the Emperor in the Summer Palace. Still, Zhi-Gang couldn't suppress a surge of anger.

"Where?" he demanded. He gripped Jing-Li's arm, pulling him to his feet. "Show me."

"You are the master," Jing-Li hissed. "It's not fitting..." His voice trailed away. He obviously knew Zhi-Gang would not be deterred. And so, with a sigh, he led the way.

They wove as silently as possible around the bamboo slats supporting the mat walls. At the edge of the boat, braced on both sides by barrels of water, a small hidey-hole appeared. Jing-Li had even managed a worn blanket set as a cushion to allow a spy to sit more comfortably.

Zhi-Gang frowned. "How often do you look in on me? Do you watch me as I shit?"

Jing-Li shrugged, straightening. "My life rests in your hands. I do not take your safety lightly." Then he grabbed hold of a barrel and began to shift it for more room.

Zhi-Gang's hand shot out, gripping his friend's arm. "Go find out when we will arrive in Jiangsu province."

Jing-Li's face held genuine surprise. "But... why?"

He couldn't answer. His friend had reason to be startled. How many times had they spied together on the lesser women in their quarters at the Forbidden City? From the ages of thirteen to fifteen, Jing-Li's aunt's home had been a particular favorite, with excellent peepholes into the women's area.

And yet, this woman was different. This time was different. Zhi-Gang had no tolerance for his friend's prurient lusts. It sullied the white woman in some indefinable way. That he did not understand his attitude bothered him, but it did not change his mind. "You will not spy on this woman."

Jing-Li's face darkened, and his fists tightened. "Enjoy her if you must, Zhi-Gang, but do not grow attached," he warned. "She must die before we reach Jiangsu."

Zhi-Gang knew it was true, and yet he could not stop the surge of fury that boiled through him. "Do not seek to instruct me!" he snapped. "Without me, you would be dead alongside the Emperor's guard!" For all Jing-Li's spying, it had taken his own Enforcer's blades to make their escape. And even then, they had been unable to save the Emperor.

Jing-Li did not answer, though he obviously struggled with the desire to speak. In the end, he bowed and backed away even as he threw in a final suggestion: "Use her roughly, my friend, and loudly. I will make sure her death looks like rigorous enthusiasm." Then he slipped around the barrel and disappeared.

Zhi-Gang forcibly restrained himself from bellowing after his friend. He had never enjoyed violent bed sport like many others of his age and status. The sight of bruised and bloodied women disquieted his qi to the point of illness. The process of strangulation during bed play was another barbarian import that appealed to only the most corrupt of his countrymen. And yet, it would be a ready excuse for a concubine's demise.

A noise from within his chamber drew his attention: a soft, feminine gasp and a large splash. He struggled with his conscience but could not stop himself. He wanted to see the white woman. He needed to understand what about her drew him so strongly. His discussion with Jing-Li forgotten, he settled quickly down on the blanket and pressed his eye to the peephole. Two peepholes, in fact, perfect for relaxed spying. But he saw nothing. With a silent curse, he drew back and put on his glasses. Then, at last, the chamber grew distinct, the muted light became bright enough to see.

No one. He could see the outlines of the wood tub, but... A leg. One long leg lifted out of the water, barely discernable before the view was cut off by his desk. Whatever had possessed him to leave his desk there?

A sudden eruption of noise and form: the woman rising up from where she'd been submerged beneath the water. He had not realized how every sound carried so clearly. He could hear the splash of droplets on the deck, her gasp of breath as she stretched upward, and the rush of water that streamed from her hair back into the tub.

She was... bouncy. That was his first thought. Given his youthful pursuits and his current age and status, he had seen and enjoyed many a Chinese female. They were, as a rule, small with crippled feet, tiny hands, and little breasts. Not this woman. She dwarfed the round wood tub in which she sat. Her legs—what he could see of them—were sturdy. Her hands were large by comparison and her shoulders broad. But what riveted his gaze were her breasts. Big breasts. Large bouncing breasts that jiggled as she wrung out her hair.

He was fascinated. She was arched over, her back a long, beautiful line on which he detected the shadow of ribs on a body deprived of rich foods. And yet, even as she revealed her thin body, her breasts dangled like ripe honey pomelos. Would her skin be resistant like their rinds? His hands itched to touch, his mouth watered just thinking of their sweet taste. Her flesh would fill his hands to overflowing, and still there would be more to suckle.

She finished twisting the water from her hair, and she straightened and wound the thick mass on top of her head. With her arms raised, her breasts lifted even higher and he at last caught his first sight of a white woman's nipple. He had thought they would be pale like the rest of her skin, but now he saw it wasn't true. Her nipples were dark, like ink made from tea leaves. They were puckered from the chill air and shaped differently than he expected—flatter, more round, and yet no less pleasing. Indeed, he spent much time watching, trying to decide on the best flower analogy for those lifted brown tips. None came to mind, though his mouth and tongue grew restless imagining their shape and texture.

Blood pounded in his ears, and his legs spread naturally to give his sex more room. He longed to touch himself, to relieve the ache inspired by this woman, but he held himself back. It was not dignified for a man such as himself to sit on a boat deck, hidden though he was, and fondle himself.

Yet, he did not stop watching. The woman leaned over the side of the tub, reaching with long fingers for something on the floor. Soap. It was Chinese cake soap such as any fishwife might use. For the first time since fleeing Peking, he mourned the loss of his western rose soap. How sweet she would smell with the scent of flowers upon her skin.

She applied the soap vigorously. He had heard the whites were fastidious in their bathing, but he had not expected such furor. Every curve, every dimple, every inch was rubbed until he could see a fine pink cast even from this distance. Her face, her long neck, her white shoulders, and the full length of each arm grew flushed from her ministration. And his cock throbbed thick and heavy against his thigh.

Her breasts came next, and he was disappointed that she spent no more time there than anywhere else. And yet, there was still excitement in the tantalizing way she lifted and moved them. And when she squeezed the sponge, sluicing water down her chest, he nearly released his seed right there. His mind seemed to fixate on that rapid gush of water. It flowed over her breasts, sluicing across her nipples, only to cling there, hovering, beading.

In truth, he couldn't see these tiny details, but his mind created them. And in his thoughts, he was inside, licking each sparkling drop.

He must have made a sound. He must have done something to alert her, because she abruptly froze. He saw her straighten. She tucked her knees beneath her such that she was kneeling in the water, her hands tight on the tub rim. Then she turned, slowly rotating so that she could see every darkened shadow in the room.

The sight made Zhi-Gang's blood heat even further. The way she turned, shifting slowly as she craned her neck one way or another—it gave him a full and glorious view of her. He saw her breasts from all angles, watched them bounce with her movements, and yes, he imagined those sweet drops of water slicking her body with the most bewitching perfume.

But then she stopped. She must have again believed herself alone, because she leaned back against the tub wall. Her knees tucked momentarily against her chest, compressing her breasts into fat pillows, then she slowly extended her legs.

To Zhi-Gang's great delight, she pushed each leg high in the air—probably to keep any drops of water and soap inside the tub.
Tien,
she had long, long legs. He had not thought her so tall, but of course she'd hunched to hide her white woman's height.

The desk that blocked his view was no problem at this angle; her limbs extended above the plane of its hard surface. And she moved with such languid care that he could watch the way her thigh and calf muscles flexed beneath the smooth expanses of her porcelain skin. She allowed one leg to dangle over the tub edge, bouncing slightly against the side. The other foot was drawn close in as she began to soap it. He noted the high arch and tiny toes on her large, healthy feet. He had never liked the Han Chinese tradition of binding, and he smiled as she took her time slipping her fingers between each of her tiny toes.

How beautiful a full foot was! He vividly remembered his sister's screams during the binding process, and ever since then, the sight of crippled golden lotuses had always nauseated him. But this woman was whole, this woman's body strong in its full perfection.

She moved to soap her ankle and calf, flexing and arching her foot as she slowly thrust her leg through the circle of her hands. Up, up, up her leg went, while her hands slipped from around her ankle to underneath her calf, then she rounded the slight bend in her knee before drawing high on the inside of her thigh.

Zhi-Gang's breath caught, his mouth dropping open as she paused—leg still raised—to soak the sponge with water. Then, to his absolute delight, she drew her leg back in, raised her arms high—which also lifted her breasts—and squeezed the sponge. The deluge felt like a release to him; water sluiced down and he sighed in delight.

A single large bubble perched on her ankle. As the water hit, it popped and disappeared, but not in his imagination. In his mind's eye he saw that bubble slide up her leg, coiling around beneath her calf and knee until it settled into the dark hair that was hidden from his view. The thought was so compelling that he had to stifle a groan, his momentary release gone as he imagined his hands and organ plunging deep inside her. His dragon was no longer quiet against his thigh, but reared up full, proud, and very hungry. He would pierce that bubble between her thighs. He would lift her hips so that her long legs gripped him tightly behind his lower back. He would use the sponge to trail spicy perfume across her breasts and into her cinnabar cave.

All these things he imagined over and over while she applied herself to her other leg, cleaning and rubbing in a way no Chinese woman would unless she prepared herself for... His thoughts stumbled. Could it be? Did this white woman prepare to sacrifice herself to him for her freedom? The thought was titillating, to be sure. She was a beautiful woman, and he was already bursting through his underclothes.

Then the unthinkable happened. The woman glanced around. He could not tell if she was nervous or angry or simply curious, but he thought perhaps she was afraid and checking the shadows one last time. How very much like a woman to believe that she could have any privacy in a situation such as hers. But according to his English teacher, white women were extraordinarily secluded in their childhood. Perhaps this woman really was a nun. Perhaps Sister Marie had been cloistered in a Christian temple at a very young age. That would explain why she had little understanding of the ways of the world.

What she did next was all the more enthralling. She allowed both her legs to relax against the side of the tub, then lolled her head back as if she wished to rest. But her hands were not still. One traced a path from her neck down between her breasts, and then—rather abruptly—straight to her left breast. She cupped it, squeezing her hand tighter and tighter until her thumb rolled over her nipple.

He could see that the motion was not practiced, not a motion like that of a slave trying to entice her master. There was no subtle offering of the breast to an onlooker, or even a coy glance from beneath hooded eyes; Sister Marie's eyes were kept tightly closed as if this act were for herself alone.

And then her right hand moved as well. He watched it slip off the lip of the tub to land on her thigh. He could only barely see her long fingers above the wooden edge. And then they disappeared altogether.

She couldn't possibly be about to... She
was
. He could see her skin flush with her exertions, heard the water splash in the tub, and—most telling of all—watch her arch her neck back as she pushed against her hand.