Prince of Forever

by Gena Showalter

  Almost trembling with the force of her desire, she followed him into the bathroom, then observed as he worked. Once again, she was struck by the raw masculinity of his form and the pantherlike grace with which he moved, even while doing manual labor. But only half an hour later, she was jerked from her sensual reverie when he shouted curses at the pipes.

  She gasped when she saw the cut on his hand, where blood welled. Concerned, she rushed to his side, grabbed his shirt from the floor and hurriedly wrapped the material around his hand. Soon crimson soaked through the white, dripping to the floor.

  “I need another bandage. This one is useless,” he said, then kissed her cheek.

  “I still keep a spare set of clothing in the office—”

  “There is not time. I’m bleeding too badly. You must remove your blouse,” he demanded, his attention centered on his wound. “I’ll use that.”

  “Of course.” Her concern for him increased. As a warrior, he’d probably endured countless wounds. He knew a bad one from a lethal one. She tugged off her shirt and helped him rewrap his hand.

  “Now give me your panties,” he said.

  This time she paused and blinked up at him. “What?”

  He winced. A little too forcefully, perhaps? “Panties…last hope,” he said, sounding as if he were in a B movie, playing the part of a dying sailor at sea.

  She studied his features, her suspicions growing. “Let me see your hand.”

  “There is no time. I suffering agonizing pain, woman, and you dare question me?”

  Oh, she didn’t doubt he was in pain. It was just the type of pain that was in question. There was a mischievous twinkle in his eyes, and no pair of panties in the world would protect his injury. Still, willing to play along, no, eager to play along, Julia glanced around the corner to make sure no customers had entered.

  Feeling daring and uninhibited, she removed her panties and handed the scrap of material to Tristan. Cool air touched the heat of her, making her shiver.

  “There,” she said, trying to hide her excitement. “Happy now?”

  “Nay. I need your skirt, as well.”

  Not wanting this to be too easy for him, she crossed her arms over her chest. “What for?”

  “The explanation is too complicated. I must show you.”

  “What does this showing involve, hmm?”

  “You, my hands, my mouth, my erection, and five minutes….ten…an hour of pleasure.”

  She snorted. “Sounds like you’re trying to get paid for an unfinished job.”

  “Not true. I simply require inspiration in order to finish my task.”

  Well, how could she argue with that? If the man needed inspiration, a man needed freaking inspiration.

  “Because I’m such an giver, I’m going to do this for you. But only because I’m a giver.” A fog of anticipation wrapped around her as she closed the distance between them.

  Grinning, he lifted her up and placed her atop the sink’s edge. “I’m feeling more inspired already.”

  “I’m certain you won’t be feeling enough inspiration until I’m screaming,” she said.

  “I’m certain you’re right.” With slow, deliberate movements, he removed the shirt from around his hand and tossed it to the ground.

  She gaped as his wound began to weave back together all on its own. Soon there was no evidence he had ever been hurt, and her jaw dropped. “How did you do that?”

  “A function of the curse.” He tugged off her skirt and tossed the material aside with a whoosh. But he held fast to the panties. “These are mine.”

  “Okay. That’s fine…as long as you give me something in return. Tit for tat.”

  “Hmm, I like the customs of your world. You give me tit, and I’ll give you tat. Twice.”

  As if she needed to ponder her response. “Deal!”

  He circled a fingertip around her nipples. Despite the fabric of her bra, the heat of his skin seared her to the core, and she gasped.

  “I want you, Julia. Are you too sore?”

  Yes, but her need proved stronger than her soreness. Besides, the more she needed, the faster the soreness disintegrated into hot flames. “I want you,” she said.

  “Then you shall have me.” He placed drugging kisses along her breasts, sucking her nipples through the bra.

  “The front door isn’t locked,” she said, then ran his earlobe through her teeth. “Don’t make me scream, okay? I have to know if someone comes in.”

  “If I cannot make you scream, draga, I am not worthy to be your lover.” With that, he concentrated fully on her body.

  Within five minutes, she was moaning. Within ten, she was begging him to move faster.

  By the fifteen-minute mark, she was screaming his name over and over again.

  Neither of them heard the doorbell chime.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  Protect Your Mistress With Your Own Life

  “UH, EXCUSE ME,” a deep, slightly accented male voice called. “Are you okay in there? I heard shouts. Should I call the cops?”

  Julia cast a frantic glance at Tristan, then down at their still-joined bodies. This wasn’t happening; it couldn’t be happening.

  Unfortunately, it was….

  Both she and Tristan just had a mind-shattering orgasm, and now there was someone waiting in the shop’s vestibule, wanting to know if everything was okay. Invisible flames licked at her cheeks and spread down her neck and collarbone. Her clothes were out of reach, and she had a half-naked man between her thighs, the echo of her screams ringing in her ears.

  Why, why, why hadn’t she locked the door and posted the Closed sign?

  Just how long had the customer been there? What had he heard? Enough to consider calling the cops, obviously.

  Tristan, the jerk, seemed totally unconcerned by their potential audience. “We’ll be out in a few minutes.” That said, he pushed the bathroom door shut with his foot and tightened his grip on her hips.

  “Unless I hear from the woman,” the speaker called, “I’m dialing 911.”

  “No, no, no!” Julia shouted. “I’m fine. I promise. I’ll, uh, be right there.” She scrambled away from Tristan and dang it, she missed him already.

  “Do you need any help, ma’am?” the stranger asked.

  “Just stay where you are,” she cried, trying not to panic.

  “Allow me to aid you, draga.” Tristan picked up her skirt and helped her step inside it.

  “I need my panties, too.” Where were her panties?

  “Nay.” Eyes darkening, he shook his head. “You gave them to me.”

  “Well, I’m taking them back.”

  “Wrong. I will fight to the death to keep them.”

  She ground her teeth together. Without her underwear, cool air would continue to kiss her overheated lady parts, a potent reminder of everything they’d just done. How was she going to face this customer without blushing?

  She’d once thought having a boyfriend would solve her every problem. Now? She had to accept having a boyfriend created a whole new set of complications.

  “You should see the emotions crossing over your face,” Tristan said with a grin. “Embarrassment. Satisfaction. Excitement. Whether you protest or not, you are enjoying each new adventure tossed your way. And I like that you like them.”

  “Are you sure I can’t help you?” the man said.

  “I’m sure!” Julia cried.

  Tristan’s grin faded in a hurry. “This man is alone inside the store and could even now be searching for the box.”

  “But he’s a guy. I thought only females could own it and summon you?”

  “That is correct, but females can hire males to steal it for them. Right now, I suspect everyone, male and female, of foul intent. So you will wait here, Julia, while I interrogate this new arrival.”

  “No, Tristan, I—”

  He stalked off before she finished.

  Moving at lightning speed, she fastened the buttons on her top. She grimaced
when she saw the crimson spots of dried blood dotted across the center. Crap! The sight of blood might send the shopper into superhero mode, inciting him to phone the police after all. “Tristan,” she called.

  * * *

  THOUGH TRISTAN longed to respond to his woman, he ignored her, keeping his focus on the newcomer. In the center of the shop was a tall, fair-haired man. He was dressed in ripped, faded clothing that showcased a warrior’s muscles. He also carried a red rectangular crate that held strange weapons.

  Three other people entered, two female, one male, the bell above the door tinkling.

  Tristan never should have relaxed his guard. But, curse it, Julia was too tempting, too alluring for him to resist. When she had taken that candy into her mouth, her expression had looked the same as when she came. From that moment on, he had thought of nothing but bedding her. Who was he kidding? He’d thought of nothing but bedding her long before she’d eaten the candy.

  “What do you here?” he demanded of the man with the weapons.

  Before the man could answer, a fully dressed Julia shuffled around him. “Hello,” she said, then stopped. “I’m, uh…well, I’m Julia. The owner.” She took a deep breath and made a visible effort of gathering her wits. “How may I help you?”

  Tristan lunged to grab her, to shove her safely behind him, but she expected the action and easily sidestepped him.

  “I’m here to fix your pipes,” the man said, darting a nervous glance at Tristan.

  “Oh, yes.” Julia offered him a welcoming smile. “Morgan Schetfield, right?”

  He paused a moment, then nodded. “That’s right. I am Morgan Schetfield.”

  Ah. An expected workman. Still. Tristan did not relax his warrior stance. “I require proof of your identity,” he said, taking Julia by the shoulders and forcing her to his side.

  She frowned at him. “I’m sure that’s not necessary.”

  “It is very necessary.” He gave the man a pointed stare.

  “Sure thing.” Morgan muttered something under his breath, then withdrew a thin card shaped much like Julia’s American Express.

  Tristan took it, studied it from every angle—which meant nothing to him—and handed the colorful, thin square to Julia.

  She glanced over the surface. “He’s Morgan Schetfield, just as he claimed.” After returning the card to its owner, she told Morgan, “The problem is in the back. If you’ll follow me…”

  Tristan followed, too. He almost laughed when her cheeks reddened as she entered the bath chamber and spotted both of her shoes strewn haphazardly across the floor. She quickly stuffed her feet inside them.

  “What exactly is the problem?” Morgan asked.

  Julia explained about the moaning pipes and nonflushing toilet. “Think you can fix it?”

  “I know I can.” Morgan jumped into the work, chatting the entire time, inquiring amicably about Julia and her life, asking if she was happy and other such things that were none of his business.

  It irritated Tristan that the man showed such interest in his woman. What irritated him more, however, was the fact that the man accomplished something he himself had been unable to do. The cursed man fixed the pipes, just as he had claimed.

  Even when his job was done, Morgan regaled Julia with stories about people and places Tristan knew not, and he did not like it. He suppressed the urge to pound the plumber’s face into the cracked tile floor.

  Let us see how well the man smiles when his teeth are embedded in my fist.

  Contrary to her initial unease, Julia appeared perfectly content with Morgan; she wasn’t the shy, nervous woman she’d once described herself. She no longer seemed weighed down with self-doubts. Nay, she appeared confident. While he was proud of her inner growth, Tristan did not like her ease with this other man, either.

  By the time the plumber left, Tristan seethed. Julia was his, and he would not allow another man to poach on his territory.

  When the last customer left, Julia wrapped her arms around Tristan’s neck, drew him to her and whispered all the things she wanted to do to him.

  “Let us go home,” he croaked, already hard and throbbing.

  She smiled, and she nodded.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  Never Slacken From Your Duties

  JULIA ZIPPED ALONG the highway. She and Tristan were almost home, almost in bed. She patted her purse, sighing contentedly when she felt the comforting bulge of the jewelry box.

  She glanced over at Tristan to reassure him, who’d been super quiet since Morgan’s arrival and departure, but his eyes were closed, his skin unusually pale. Sweat beaded on his brow, and his lips developed a tinge of blue.

  “Tristan?” Concerned, she alternated her attention between the road ahead of her and the man beside her.

  He didn’t respond.

  Stomach knotting with fear, she reached over to shake his thigh. “Tristan? Tristan!”

  * * *

  TRISTAN WAS LOST in a world of darkness and light. His body burned, as if being licked by an inferno of flames.

  He lay on cold, hard ground, metal bars circling him, holding him captive. Where…how…

  Zirra appeared a few feet away, and he spit a curse. She grinned as she sauntered over and straddled him. He tried to push or kick her off, but his hands and feet were staked to the ground, making movement impossible.

  Her grin only widened. “Fight this all you want. I placed an aphrodisiac in your water. You might hate me, but you’re already getting hard.”

  She placed his length inside her body, and rode him. As soon as she gained her pleasure, she hopped off, leaving him hard and aching. And he was glad she’d denied him release, for he would have despised himself for giving her any part of him.

  This isn’t real. This isn’t happening. This is just a memory. Fight it!

  “You like being controlled by me, don’t you?” she said as she strode around him. “How can you not?”

  His jaw locked mutinously.

  “Say it,” she demanded. “Tell me how you’re glad of my domination.”

  Forced by the curse, he grated, “I am glad.” Zirra did not deserve such an avowal, untruth or not. She deserved only words of hate.

  “What a good little slave you are,” she praised, pausing at his side to rake her nails down his chest. Not as a lover would, but as a master who believed her subject unworthy of tenderness. “Now tell me how much you love me.”

  “I love you,” he growled, because he couldn’t not say it. He added silently, I loathe you.

  “Liar,” she snarled, baring her teeth in a fierce scowl. “You are a liar. The spell would be broken if you’d spoken true. How dare you lie to me, to your master. You will be punished, doubt me not.” She climbed back atop him, taking him inside once again. Riding, riding.

  He fought the urge to come, fought so hard, but in the end, his body betrayed him every time.

  Zirra’s spasms ceased soon after his own. Panting, she glared down at him. “All I have ever given you is love, and yet you constantly throw that in my face.” She pushed to her feet once more and donned her robe. “You owe me thanks for the pleasure I just bestowed upon you, slave. I will hear it now.”

  The scene changed abruptly. All of a sudden, Tristan found himself chained to a wall in Zirra’s throne room, naked. A progression of women paraded in front of him.

  “You are allowed to do one thing to him,” Zirra called. “Only one. But it can be whatever you desire, as long as you do not make him bleed.”

  The line seemed endless. He endured cruel pinches, eager tugs and caresses, stinging slaps, and by the end, his skin was a mass of purple and blue bruises. Even the battlefields of Gillirad had not wounded him so deeply.

  “I am your master, your true lover,” Zirra said when the last woman left the chamber. “Will you ever lie to me again?”

  “Nay. So here’s a bit of truth. I despise you, you heartless hag,” he gritted out.

  Her eyes flashed blue fire. “For that you s
hall spend the rest of the eve exactly as you are.”

  Again the image shifted.

  Blink. He stood naked before a bed. Zirra reclined on the mattress, white pillows at her back. “Tristan, come over here, darling.”

  Without hesitation he obeyed. He crawled up the bed and hovered over her, staying on his knees as he knew she liked. He’d been her slave for years now and knew to hide his disgust.

  “I have need of you,” she purred.

  “Whatever you wish, you know I will perform.”

  Her features softened. “Tell me you want me.”

  “I want you.” He deadpanned the words, making it clear he lied.

  She bared her teeth. “Tell me how beautiful I am.”

  “You are beautiful.” He did not elaborate as she always wished. He made her force his every word and move. He gave her nothing willingly, the only control he had over himself.

  “Love me,” she breathed, placing kisses up his chest and neck.

  He despised her every touch, wanted to race from this chamber and spew the contents of his stomach each time she glanced his way. “Love is the one thing I am not forced to give you, Zirra. You know that. Your spell was for me to give pleasure to my guan ren. It said naught of love. That was your mistake, and that is what you must live with. For I will never offer you my heart.” He took great delight in his next words. “You sicken me.”

  The nails that had softly scraped his back now sank into his flesh, droplets of blood sliding down his spine. “Who owns you?”

  Here we go again. “You do.”

  “Who governs your fate?”

  “You.”

  Her eyes narrowed to tiny slits. “Never forget that, Tristan, or I will make you suffer for it.”

  Tristan vaguely heard someone, a female, calling his name from a faraway place. It was a voice he felt compelled to answer. However, his mouth refused to work.

  The voice continued to echo in his head. Familiar…

  Julia!

  Fear tinged her voice. Had someone threatened her? Either way, she needed him. In a panic to reach her, he fought his way through the dark haze still enveloping his mind.

  Wait. Was his body soaked with sweat? Was he trembling? What had just happened? He had been inside Julia’s car, peering out at the scenery of this planet he had come to admire. The red hills and stone homes, all while breathing in the clean, crisp air. Then the darkness had invaded his mind. He had been unable to stop from sinking into his memories. But how had he relived those memories so vividly?