The Challenge (30 page)

At that moment, she suspected that he would demand more from her than she wanted to give. But if she wanted to make things right between them—necessary so they could work together on what she must learn for the Challenge—she would have to comply.

He left her for a moment and returned with a jar. “Your flesh would pick up the light better with lotion.”

She thought he would place the lotion on her, but he opened the lid and held it out to her. “Dip your fingers into the jar and apply the oil over your shoulders. Make sure you do not miss any spots.”

It wasn’t enough for him that she was standing there with her breasts exposed. Oh, no. Now he wanted her skin oiled. Hoping she could turn his request into her advantage, she swallowed back her apprehension, lowered her eyes from his blazing ones to the lotion and did as he asked.

The oil was warm and reminded her of vanilla mixed with honey. Slick and shiny, the clear unguent clung to her fingers but spread easily over her shoulders, leaving her skin glistening under the lights.

His voice turned huskier, deeper, another clue that despite his attempt to remain unaffected, he couldn’t quite do so. “Lower your dress to the waist.”

Ever so slowly, she did as he asked, exposing more of herself to the lights and his oh-so interested gaze. At the flush of heat he emitted, her breasts swelled. She didn’t have to be a mind reader to guess what he had planned next. More oil. On her breasts.

And doing the task before he asked appealed to her. She reached for the jar.

“Begin the dance again,” he ordered, his voice hoarse.

Damn him.

But she wanted to move. Only this time with her breasts free, the dance was different. When she raised her arms and arched her back, her breasts lifted. With every step, she bounced a little and just knowing how intently he watched her made her stomach clench. She swayed her hips with more vigor, performed the steps recklessly, all too aware that his hungry gaze never left her.

This time when the music paused, she stopped with her legs spread boldly wider, arched her spine and rested her hands on her waist.

Taking his time, Kahn walked around her. As she drew air into her lungs, her chest expanded, her breasts lifted as if offering themselves up to him. But he didn’t lose any control. He didn’t touch her, although a trickle of sweat beaded on his forehead before the suit absorbed the moisture.

“This pose seems more defiant than erotic.” He stopped in front of her, his eyes daring her. “You will do better. You need an inducement.” He lifted the pot to her.

She had no intention of falling for that little trick again and held completely still.

“Your breasts would please me better if they too were oiled.”

She almost moved.
Almost
. But he had not told her that she could.

“Do it.”

Before she’d been willing. Now for a moment, she wanted to fling the pot in his face, but she had to assume some responsibility for his anger. She had spent a fortune in credits without discussing her plans with him, and she had spoken to his enemy. She couldn’t blame her actions entirely on the culture difference. Even on Earth, marriage meant sharing financial decisions. And she’d promised to obey his customs, then disobeyed his direct order and had taken a call from Jypeg. So now she dared not risk increasing Kahn’s anger when her plan was to assuage it. She needed him hot. She needed him to make love to her. She needed him to forgive her so she could forgive him for putting her through this. And he’d just handed her a weapon. Dipping her fingers into the pot, she scooped out lotion and cupped her palm, then poured half the lotion into her other hand, too. Using one hand on each breast, she slowly coated the oil over her breasts, leaving the aureoles and nipples for last.

His mouth parted. His eyes widened, and he never once took his gaze from her. She had no idea exactly when her breasts had become so sensitive. “Tweak your nipples,” he demanded.

The lotion made her want his touch, not her own. She hesitated.

“Would you like to start over?”

She forced a smile to her lips and raised her hands back to her breasts. Taking her nipples between thumb and forefinger she plucked the tips, shooting a volt of electricity directly between her thighs. Unable to control a gasp, she looked up to see if he’d caught her reaction.

He had. His pupils dilated. “Again.”

She obeyed, almost staggering at the pleasure.

“Use the oil everywhere,” he demanded, his voice hot and laced with huskiness.

She smoothed the oil over the tips of her oh-so tender aureoles, and his eyes burned her with their fire. However, the lotion wasn’t teasing only him. The heat from the overhead lights, combined with the slick, slippery oil, plus the smooth caress of her own hands had her on fire.

She needed for him to stop making demands. She needed him to reach for her, to touch her. But he didn’t. He kept both a physical and emotional distance between them that she was determined to breech.

“Oil your nipples for me.”

She had never done anything so outlandish. Her stomach clenched. She felt brazen and sexy and bold. When she massaged the oil over her tender nipples, she had to grit her teeth to hold back a soft moan.

Surely now he would take her, make love to her? She was so ready.

But the moment she finished her task, he issued a new command. “Cup your breasts underneath. Offer yourself to me.”

She surrendered to his demand. Her breasts heaved in the light, her glistening skin and nipples begged for his touch, but he only stared, making her once again aware that he was fully dressed while she was posing decadently.

“I like having you offering yourself to me.”

What man wouldn’t?

As if he’d heard her sarcastic thought, he used his psi to turn the walls around her into mirrors.

Oh, God
. She looked like she belonged in the center of a men’s magazine. But worse than her pose was the sheer need on her face. Her lips pouting for a kiss, her legs straining to hold the pose, her eyes sparkling with excitement, and her breasts heaving in expectation.

“Remove the rest of your dress, but don’t move a muscle.”

Her mouth went dry. Now he wanted her naked. Vulnerable.

She wished he’d make the mirrors disappear. Or dim the lights, but it was as bright in this chamber as daytime on Zenon Prime.

Sending a shaking psi thought to her suit, Tessa turned her suit transparent and was totally bared to his gaze—except for the horrible shoes. The heels made her back arch, her butt jut even more, and her breasts stand up higher. Between the lights on her shimmering flesh, the mirrors which showed her front and back and every angle between, and his close scrutiny, she felt wicked and wanton.

She glanced away from her reflection to catch him watching her with a fiery interest in his eyes and compressed lips that warned her he wasn’t done. She gulped down her nerves, tamped down her edgy anxiety.

Why was he still resisting? The mirrors disappeared, and he turned the walls back to silver
bendar
. Now what?

With him standing behind her, she had no idea what he would do next. So when he lightly ran a finger between her parted legs, she jumped in surprise.

“I told you to hold still.” He immediately slapped her bare buttocks once, twice. Not enough to hurt, just enough to create a rush of blood and remind her that as badly as she wanted him now, he could so easily make her want him more.

She dared not move, wanted to beg for him to touch her, caress her, ached to part her legs wider to urge him to do more. But with his instructions not to move or speak, with her hands still cupping her breasts, she’d never felt so awkward and needy and unsure. She couldn’t deny she wanted him. Not with the moisture seeping between her open thighs. Not with her nipples tight and achy hard.

When he placed his hand between her legs, she hoped her slick heat would prove irresistible to him. She expected that when he walked around to face her again, his mouth would have softened. It didn’t.

And unless he made love to her soon, she would soon be hot enough to suffer a total meltdown. The heat on her bottom combined with the burning ache between her legs, plus her need to push him over the edge kept her hopes up.

“Dance for me again. I take much pleasure in your nudity, especially the pink color of your bottom and your tight nipples.”

Strange how his words made her even more aware of what he had done to her. She should be angry over the way he spoke to her, never mind the spankings, but she’d learned that the sting quickly disappeared leaving such delicious heat and undeniable desire that her mental protest was sheerly intellectual.

Apparently to make him lose control and take her, she had to give him an added inducement. Another pose.

She restrained a frustrated sigh.

Determined to dance until he couldn’t resist her, she vowed to do what he asked. Drawing out a contest of wills might be sweet torment, but she needed him to make love to her before she went insane from wanting him.

So she danced to entice him, to seduce him, letting her emotions guide her. Her steps and movements might have been more desperate than graceful, but she no longer cared. And when she stopped, she waited with her nerves ragged and her heart tap dancing against her ribs for him to make the next move.

He held out the oil to her. “Use it everywhere.”

Oh, my. Her heart pounded, but she still lacked oxygen and her lungs strained to draw in air. Her brain clouded with indecision—as if she had a choice. She didn’t. Her ears rushed with the roar of blood. She’d never known she could do such things. Or feel so wickedly delicious. But he was her husband, her life mate who she wanted to make up with after a terrible disappointment, and her inhibitions dropped away. If he wanted her to do this for him—then she would. If he required her to be this vulnerable—then she would be strong enough to be this vulnerable. She dipped her fingers into the oil and watched his Adam’s apple bob, a muscle in his jaw clench. Sweat beaded on his upper lip.

She slathered the oil over her belly, her buttocks, her thighs, her calves.

“You missed between your legs.”

She did as he asked. If her confidence had been a color, it would have been intrepid red. If her determination had been a temperature, it would have been blazing hot. And if the need in her had been a storm, it would have been a category five hurricane.

She had never felt so erotic, so exposed, so sexy. Surely now he would make love to her.

As she straightened and waited for him to come to her, she forgave him for putting her through this. Her need for him wasn’t merely physical, but emotional. With every fiber of her soul, she wanted him to make love to her. Accept her. As she stood before him naked and oiled, if this had been a high stakes game of poker, she’d just wagered the house limit and shown her hand.

The tension in the room had her holding her breath. The lovemaking was going to be so good. She’d waited so long, and the heat between her thighs made her quiver. But even more than physical relief, she longed for her husband’s caress, his pardon, and his approval.

He approached and more moisture seeped between her thighs. She held her head high.

But he didn’t stop.

He kept walking past her, his tone tight and cold as a Montana blizzard. “I don’t want what you have to offer.”

Spurning her, he headed out the door.

Stunned, she tried to follow him. But he’d locked the door.

Damn him! She’d offered him everything she could to make things right. Everything. And he’d left her trembling with need, locked in the room. After all she’d done for him, after she’d obeyed his most outrageous demands, he . . . didn’t . . . want her.