White Tigress (34 page)

He smiled, as if understanding her thoughts. Then he gently shifted her position so that she faced the edge of the bed, but he did not sit as she expected. Instead, he slipped behind her, reaching around to unbutton the front of her gown. She tried to lean back against him. Indeed, she felt almost weak as her head dropped to rest against his shoulder. But he did not allow her to fall into his arms. Instead, he pushed her forward again, back into balance as he dropped tiny kisses along her neck and shoulder.

"Remain standing please," he whispered. It was not a command, but a gentle request, and she smiled at the warmth in his tone. "You will enjoy it more if I do not have to support you."

"Yes," she murmured, unable to voice anything more.
Yes.

Gently, he eased her gown down, carefully pulling her arms out of the sleeves. She felt the whisper of air across her skin, even more so on the drying water, and the different temperatures only heightened her awareness. Bit by bit, he slid her gown down, letting it settle heavily upon her hips. Then she felt the ties of her corset slacken, breath filling her lungs as the bindings were released.

Once again, she felt the heat of Ru Shan's arms around her, though he didn't actually touch her, and the soft pops as he released each hook that bound her in front. One by one they were released, and her breath deepened, her heat rose, and the yin energy flowed.

She felt him tug at the corset, trying to lift it out from under her clothing. But the garment was attached to her stockings. "You have to unhook it. Below my skirt," she explained.

"Truly?" he asked. The surprise in his voice made her open her eyes. "English clothing is very strange. So many hooks and ties."

She smiled and nearly answered, but her words fled as he knelt at her feet. She watched him lift her right leg, setting her foot on his thigh. Then he untied the ribbons of her footwear. She had not thought the sight would be so moving, but it was: her husband, kneeling before her as he performed the services of a maid. She could not imagine any man she knew doing such a thing, including Ru Shan. He had such an aura of power and control that this act seemed much too servile for him.

Yet, here he was, gently removing one slipper after the other, and she was amazed to the point of tears. This was an act of devotion. An expression of feeling that she truly had never thought to experience, much less feel from her husband.

And all the while he continued to work, gently returning her unshod foot to the floor before sliding his hands up underneath her skirt.

"Ru Shan?" she whispered, suddenly nervous as his fingers trailed up her right calf, then knee, then spread wider as he explored her thigh.

"Shhh," he soothed, while his fingers continued to move higher and higher.

Her entire body shuddered with too much feeling, but Ru Shan smiled, his fingers still high on her leg.

"Do not be afraid, Lydia," he said. "That was your body throwing off the English contamination of the last few days. It is letting you know that you are mine now, a Chinese wife."

She swallowed, unsure what he meant, her focus completely trained upon his fingers. They still rested much too far from her throbbing cinnabar cave. "Ru Shan, the yin river flows very strongly," she gasped.

His smile widened. "It is but a fast-flowing stream, Lydia. Before I am done, it shall be a gushing waterfall."

She did not know what to think of that. She stared down at him, seeing his pleasure—his satisfaction—at her confusion.

"Do not be concerned, my wife. I will show all to you."

She nodded. Then, at his urging, she slowly widened her stance, spreading her legs to allow him more room.

"Close your eyes, my wife. Encourage the yin stream to expand."

She didn't need his prompting because his fingers were once again moving. But not to her cave. She felt his hands on the tops of her stockings, gently untying the bindings there, before slipping the material free all the way down her leg.

Her leg felt suddenly cold, abandoned. But there was little time to mourn as he began to repeat his actions on the other leg. She knew what to expect this time, and so she closed her eyes, wanting to enjoy the sensations of his solid thigh beneath her foot, the gentle tug of his fingers on the ties, then his hand cupping her ankle and heel as he slipped her footwear away.

He had such large hands, warm and gentle. He seemed to envelop her foot and ankle with his power. That was very much as her entire body felt now—totally surrounded by his command. And, much to her surprise, she enjoyed it. Indeed, she reveled in it, wanting his possession, wanting his amazing yang force within and around her. Completely.

Once again, his fingers began their quest up her leg. From calf to knee to thigh he went, his touch playful as her breathing increased, her simmering yin becoming more frenzied in her bloodstream.

His hands were so close, nearly there, almost touching her cinnabar cave. But they did not go there. When his single knuckle accidentally brushed the inside of her other leg, she felt her entire body shudder.

But she did not say anything, and slowly, he pulled her stocking down and away. And when he stood, she felt him take hold of her loose corset, lifting it away. Her dress remained a heavy weight upon her hips.

She was naked from the waist up, her breasts full and peaked, anxious for his touch, her very skin begging for his attention.

"Keep your eyes closed," he whispered next to her ear. "You will feel each stroke all the more powerfully."

She had not needed his suggestion. Her body felt too languid to open her eyes. But she could still smell, and once again the scents of the perfumed water slipped into her senses. He was wetting his brush again, and then—wonderful!—he was stroking her skin, using the brush to paint designs. Not on her chest, as she wanted, but on her back. And yet, it felt incredible, and she found herself bowing forward to give him better access.

Then he stopped, and she felt her body tighten in surprise.

"Your hair should be down," he said. Before she could react, she felt his hands high upon her head, carefully discarding pins. Locks of hair began to tumble down. He gathered it all together, lifting it off her back and shoulders, only to slip it forward, so that as he painted her back, she felt her own hair tickle and torment her breasts.

"Do all Englishwomen have hair that curls as yours does?" His voice interrupted her reverie, granting her the focus to answer.

"There is great variety in hair, Ru Shan. Mine barely curls compared to many. It is more wavy than curly."

She had opened her eyes, twisting as she answered, and so she could see him nod, his gaze still on her rather unremarkable hair.

"I like it," he stated firmly as he lifted a lock, rubbing the blond strands gently between his fingers. Then he brought it to his nose, inhaling deeply before letting it slip across his cheek and face. "The scent is strange..."

"Rose water."

He nodded. "Yes, that is it. And the texture is soft. Lighter and silkier than Chinese hair." He grinned. "I most definitely like it."

She couldn't help but grin back. "I am glad you are pleased."

He sobered into a mock frown. "But I will not be pleased if you move more, my wife. Please remain still with your eyes closed."

She nodded, obediently turning her face away from him as she bent slightly forward, allowing him her back. But he did not go there. Instead, he delicately opened the fingers of her left hand, stroking the brush in and around her fingers. He spent some time playing around the plain gold band on her finger, the symbol of their union.

Before she could comment, he expanded his strokes, slipping the brush underneath her forearm, around her elbow, and up to her armpit. He was not as thorough as before on her face. And his strokes became more hurried, as if he was becoming as hungry as she.

He still went much slower than she wanted, painting both hands, both arms, and the rest of her back before at last shifting to sit before her on the bed. He paused there, and she was about to open her eyes, but he stopped her.

"Remain still," he whispered. Then he lifted her hair from her front—slowly, excruciatingly slowly—and pulled it upward, allowing the tendrils to tug at her breasts. They tweaked her nipples too lightly, brushed her skin too gently.

"Ru Shan," she said, her voice hoarse. "The yin—"

"Is growing stronger, the river wider." He leaned in close. She could feel his heat on her cheek, the touch of his breath across her ear. "Let it grow, Lydia. We have only just begun."

So saying, he began to paint her breasts. Here, he used a pattern she recognized, though with its own variations. He began by stroking lines beginning from her nipples moving straight outward. He made her breasts like a radiating sun, her tight nipples the very center as they twitched every time the brush stroke began. And when he was done, he began to circle again, drawing the brush in a tightening spiral until he wet her nipples over and over.

Her knees were weak, her body swaying with throbbing desire, and she had to brace herself against him, placing her hands on his shoulders. She could feel the tension in him as well, but he seemed to keep it contained. Indeed, he seemed to be unaffected.

Except he wasn't. He was halfway through the circles on her other breast when she heard the clatter of the brush hitting the floor.

"I cannot wait," he rasped. "Lydia, I must have some of your yin now."

And so, with her eyes still closed, she felt both his hands gather her breasts, lifting one in each of his large palms. She cried out in joy as, finally, she felt the strong grip she so desired. His hands were wide, as wide as they could spread, but then they began to narrow, pulling the yin toward the point of each breast.

He began to suck. First on her left breast, pulling long and hard on her nipple. She felt it distend into his mouth, aching to be released, while on the other side, he continued to squeeze in a rhythmic pull.

Her flow began, the river larger than ever before. The yin energy drew from her womanly core, up through her chest, becoming a fiery strand as it concentrated into her nipple and poured into his mouth. There was no fluid release, but a high vibration of heat and power and ecstasy.

She cried out in joy, her knees buckling only to find them supported against his thighs. Indeed, she was pushing him open even as he suckled on her yin. Her mind was reeling and she felt the tide begin. Too fast, too much for him to draw off of her. Too much, especially when he abruptly stopped.

"No!" she gasped, and then was rewarded with his lips on her other breast. Sucking. Drawing. The river expanding to engulf them both. Below, her cinnabar cave contracted, creating more yin, more power, more energy to pour into him. Her body convulsed again and again, and still he held her, drinking it all in.

She could no longer control her body, no longer keep on her feet. He abruptly shifted her weight, allowing her to tumble onto the mattress. Then, without warning, he stripped off her gown, leaving her wondrously naked. Still the yin river flowed, but without the continual tug on her nipples, her contractions were easing, the power slowing.

"You will not stop!" he practically growled. And with strong hands, he spread her thighs. She opened willingly, wanting it to continue, needing whatever he wished.

He kissed her below, at her cinnabar cave. His kiss was rough and hungry—just as she wanted. He thrust his tongue once, twice, then three times into her cave, but it was not enough. She writhed in frustration, and somehow he knew what she needed. Soon his thumbs replaced his tongue, pressing hard, opening her up. She stretched to meet him, but he did not allow her hips to lift no matter how much she tried.

Instead, he shifted his grip, pushing one thumb deep inside her, stroking in circles until he found a place that felt like it was the inside of her belly. But lower. Better. Harder.

Yes!

She did not know what that place was, but his hard pressure right there was glorious. And yet, her contractions had nearly stopped, the power of them feeble compared to before.

"Give me more, Lydia. Give it now."

So saying, he put his lips around her higher-up place. Once he had called it her little dragon. He stroked it with his tongue and she felt an explosion in her mind, like lightning bursting across her senses, obliterating all her restraint, nearly all her consciousness. Then he began to suck, drawing the yin river down there as it had once flowed through her nipples.

But it was more powerful here, the current overwhelming, pulsing like an ocean tide. This time the contraction felt like eighty-foot waves, almost brutal in their intensity as they crashed again and again against her little dragon, fighting to be released, fighting to flow into his mouth.

And he continued to suck, continued to draw the ever-widening, ever-increasing ocean of yin out of her. She had long since lost breath for screaming. Instead, her body was like a conduit for a power that burned through her, obliterating everything she was. Making her into something new. Something incredible.

Something that was irrevocably his.

Yes!

* * *

Lydia floated in a swirling ocean of colors, contentment slipping in, through, and around her body. She had no thought beyond joy, no existence beyond what was eternally now; and right now there was nothing but perfection.