Tempted Tigress (8 page)

He pressed his face forward, and his glasses pushed hard against the bridge of his nose. He saw that she kept her mouth tightly closed—no doubt to stifle any sound—but he heard her anyway, his imagination more than able to supply extra details. Her hips would be lifting and lowering against her long fingers, the water splashing chaotically with her increasing rhythm. He watched her throat constrict as she swallowed, and he imagined himself kissing the hollow between jaw and throat. He loved to press his ear against a woman's cheek while his lips stroked the pulse point of her neck. He loved the sound of her shortened gasps and feeling her trembling heartbeat against his tongue.

Her left hand abruptly released her breast and flung sideways to grip the wood slats. He saw her fingertips whiten as she lifted her hips in passion and her mouth gaped slightly open from her exertions.

Then suddenly it was upon her. She stretched hard against the restrictions of the tub. He prayed she would lift her belly above the water line, high enough for him to glimpse the tiniest flash of her yin center. Anything would do—her quivering white belly, her long and nimble fingers buried deep inside her, or best of all, the red and puckered lotus petals that welcomed him in his imagination.

She didn't, of course. But he saw all in his mind's eye, and with the hard grip of his hand as an aid, he plunged himself into her over and over until he too joined her in glorious release. The roar in his ears and the darkening of his vision ripped her from his senses, but in his heart, he remained inside her throughout. He flickered his fingers, playing upon his dragon like he would a flute—as her body's contractions would. And he kissed her shy lips, giving reverence to her sweet spirit and beautiful body.

By the time his heartbeat slowed, she had finished her bath. Suddenly, as if ashamed of her actions, she grabbed a towel, wrapped it fully around herself and stood. He saw nothing of
her,
none of what his imagination had just kissed and spread and impaled. And yet, he cherished her even more for this new modesty. And he held his breath, pressing his glasses as hard as he dared against the mat as he prayed for another glimpse of flesh.

There was none, though she dressed right before his eyes. The angle of her body and the dark outline of his damned desk prevented any. Fortunately, it didn't matter. Her spirit was already imprinted upon his mind and he would cherish this afternoon for many years to come: the afternoon when he first saw his Wife Number Four.

The lightness of spirit held for over an hour. Long enough for the white woman to finish dressing and combing out her hair. Long enough for the sway of the boat to lull him into a gentle doze despite his cramped location. He was so content that he barely opened his eyes when Jing-Li pressed a knife to his wife's throat.

From Anna Marie Thompson's journal

February 22, 1880

Sister
Mary wants me to write down my sins. She wants me to confess all to merciful Jesus on paper. Here are my sins:

I hate
Susanna. She acts superior because she has a mom who visits her. She's not an orphan. Well, I have a parent too. My mom may be buried by the chapel, but my father gave me a pearl ring when he was last in port. And a doll from India. The most beautiful doll in the world. I have a father, and he is not, not, not dead. So I hate
Susanna.

I hate Bible study. I don't care that Jesus healed the sick and made cripples walk some time long ago and far from China. He isn't helping anyone here, and I still have to clean up vomit and piss and worse whether I pray or not. So why should I study someone dead who isn't helping anyone?

I hate being white. The Chinese girls come and sit with their mothers. They get to stir the laundry pots and play with their brothers and sisters. They are not dirty heathens like Sister Mole-face says. They're happy and healthy and in their own country. I wish I were Chinese.

My dad has been gone four months, two weeks, and four days. That means one month, one week, and three days until I start watching the road for him. He said he'd bring me a new doll all the way from England. He's the best dad in the world. Much better than that stupid
Susanna's
mother who smells like flowers but looks like dung.

But oh! that deep romantic chasm which slanted

Down the green hill athwart a cedarn cover!

A savage place! as holy and enchanted

As e'er beneath a waning moon was haunted

By woman wailing for her demon-lover!

—Samuel Taylor Coleridge

from "Kubla Khan: or, A Vision in a Dream. A Fragment"

Chapter 4

Anna looked at her hands, gently clasped on her lap, the rich feel of silk a sweetness on her freshly scrubbed body. She had never worn anything so fine as the yellow gown now wrapping her body. She certainly hadn't enjoyed the luxury of a long bath or a quiet afternoon in over a year. She should feel pampered and clean—most especially clean. Instead, she felt unsettled. Not exactly sullied, but not even remotely virtuous.

Fortunately, she was no stranger to guilt and quite adept at ignoring it. She even had the added excuse that she had vowed to do everything possible to survive. What was a little show for the Chinese against her life? If pleasuring herself made her all the more interesting to the voyeuristic Enforcer, then so be it. No guilt. Simple survival.

Except, she hadn't just done it to tantalize the mandarin, who had surely been watching. Why
had
she done it? Why had she slipped her fingers between her legs and done what every priest had preached against since the church began?

Why had she done it? Because she was about to die. What a fool she was. She should be thinking of a way to survive, to live to tomorrow, no matter what the cost. But in her last hours of life, she had needed to give herself a little pleasure, a moment of ecstasy to savor before it all ended. It made no sense, and yet she hadn't been able to stop herself. She had needed release. She had wanted to feel—if only by her own hand—why life could be so very good. And if her erotic dream had replayed in her mind as she touched herself, then it was only to give form and detail to her last moments of delight.

And now that it was done, she could face death. She didn't even flinch when a cold blade slid across her shoulder, aiming for her throat. She'd felt the breeze when her assailant lifted the tapestry flap to enter the room. She had absolutely heard his harsh breath as he hefted his blade. Someone had come to kill her. And perhaps this was God's punishment for her debauchery.

Or perhaps not. Without conscious thought, she slammed her elbow hard into her attacker's ribs. The knife hadn't quite made it to her neck. And besides, the man—Jing-Li, she now saw—was obviously not used to slitting throats. He didn't have a good grip on her or the knife. She was able to knock the blade away with ease, then twist out of his floundering grip and punch him hard in the chest.

He went reeling back, banged into the tub and fell down. He didn't land flat, which might have been better. At least it would have ended it quickly. Unfortunately, he tried to catch himself. One arm went deep into the water, and his chin banged on the hard wood. His feet were still scrambling for purchase on the wet deck, and he naturally lost his footing. Without his feet to support him, his upper body dropped. His neck caught hard on the edge of the tub and he gurgled in real pain.

She might have helped him. She had not planned to murder the man, simply to disarm him. But his feet were flailing and she could not get close. Within moments, he'd toppled the desk. At least the smooth wood had been empty of ink or brush, but the hard bamboo edge caught her skirt as it overset. Amidst the clatter of the desk and the servant's garbled curses, she heard the ominous sound of fabric ripping. Looking down, she stifled her own curse.

Her skirt was ripped in a long inverted V shape where the edge of the desk had gouged a hole. Now her entire left leg was completely exposed and scraped raw. She wasn't sure which bothered her more.

Light flooded the tiny room as the silk hanging on the door was ripped away. The Enforcer rushed in like an avenging god. She glimpsed his face contorted in fury, his long black queue whipping behind him as he bolted forward. And then he was gone.

He'd fallen flat. In his haste to get to her side, he slipped on the very wet deck and dropped forward. But unlike his servant, he'd gone down neatly, catching himself on his hands in a kind of push-up. He was clearly coordinated, as he held himself there for a moment, reestablishing his poise, then abruptly flipped onto his side and tucked in his knees. Within moments, he had settled his legs beneath him and was completely composed, though his silks were darkening with water.

Then he did the most amazing thing of all. He burst out in laughter, catching his breath only to burst out again. "It is a good thing that you are not an assassin, Jing-Li. I am sure you would starve!" Then he settled back into another hearty laugh.

The servant glared at his master, dark fury tightening his wet features as he managed—finally—to lift his neck off the tub. His throat was red, but his face was more so. Anna had not realized how large his hands were until she saw them tighten into fists. Would he lunge at his master? She very much feared so, especially as the servant whipped his dripping queue away from his face only to have it wrap wetly around his opposite arm. This was a man who lost all coordination when angry. A lumbering bull who would cause indiscriminate damage.