by Gia Dawn
A glance at her watch told Isabella it was seven thirty. They had thirty minutes before his car was due to arrive so she might as well make the most of the show. It had been a long time since she had watched from this side of the curtain and it would be great fun to study the other dancers’ costuming and technique.
Her enjoyment was short lived, however, when Zayne bent his head close to hers. “My favorite dancer is performing tonight. Her name is Suhala.”
Suhala? Isabella fought back the tart retort that sprang to her lips. Yes, Suhala was a very good dancer, but she was young and lacked any true emotion in her performance. Her ultra-enhanced breasts were what garnered the most attention.
She gave Zayne a nasty look out of the corner of her eye. She would show him what good dancing was when he came to see her tomorrow night. “Really? And what do you like so much about her?”
“Everything.” He settled back in his chair as Suhala took the stage, looking for all the world as if he were in heaven.
In a rush of jealousy Isabella wondered if he had ever taken Suhala to the Red Mask, but then she remembered he’d told her she had been the only one. Mollified somewhat, she turned her attention back to the show, letting the beat of the music calm her frazzled nerves.
The other girls were good, she acknowledged, as one by one they shimmied over to where Zayne held up massive amounts of money to tuck into their belts. And she knew they appreciated his patronage. One was a single mother who danced to earn enough money to support her son. Another was working her way through college after a brutal divorce.
But they did not need to look at the man as if he were a prime piece of steak ready to be swallowed whole. That was her job. And she wanted to be doing it now, she admitted as the sensual throb of the drums reverberated in her chest and deep between her legs.
Their evening was over too quickly. At precisely eight Zayne’s cell phone rang, signaling his driver was waiting outside. He made no move to touch her on the ride to her apartment, dropping her off at her door with a formal thank-you-for-your-company, leaving her restless and lonely as she watched the limo disappear around a corner.
* * * * *
Zayne was completely satisfied with how the night had progressed. He very much enjoyed Dr. Seda’s company, finding her intelligent and stimulating with a grace that was exquisite. Every move of her hands or tilt of her head was poised and elegant and he rarely found himself noticing her damaged cheek, only glancing at it in passing or when the light was particularly cruel.
Yes, he’d pushed her limits and uttered innuendoes that made him cringe, but he’d reached the height of the evening when he praised another dancer.
The look she gave him was enough to poison and he knew firsthand, from dealing with his father’s several wives and their daughters, how women vied for the attention of their master…and how to use that jealousy for personal gain.
Not that he had any intention of taking another woman to his bed—not when the lovely Silk pleased him so readily. But it never hurt to make a woman think she had competition, especially if it meant she went out of her way to obey.
He would not let her see him tomorrow night, think he had not come to watch her dance. That was another part of his plan to make her beg for his favor, but he would send her a gift, along with another invitation.
He leaned back in the back of the limo and spread his legs as his cock raised its head in attention, enjoying the desire that throbbed in his blood, one hand idly smoothing along its length.
The sound of her cries echoed in his ears, along with the jingle of the tiny golden bells as he thrust himself between her legs, demanding her complete submission.
It would be a glorious night.
Chapter Five
Isabella spent every spare second of the next evening getting ready to dance. She flat-ironed her hair into sleek perfection, which caused its hints of color to pop. She ate dinner in bites between straightening her hair and applying her eye makeup before she headed to her closet and rummaged through her belly-dance costumes.
She didn’t want Zayne to think she had gone completely out of her way to impress him—which she had—but after hearing him go on and on about the other dancers’ attributes over last night’s dinner, she was bound and determined to give him something worth talking about.
It had taken every ounce of strength she could muster not to comment on Zayne’s outrageous claims of the other girls’ skills and even more not to mention or compare them to a dancer she knew called Silk who was so much better than all the others and possibly give her secret away.
Or look as if Dr. Seda was jealous of the other woman’s looks and grace.
She opted to wear a black tribal skirt hemmed in purple. With a twenty-five-yard sweep, the skirt had a life of its own and could be manipulated by hand to add even more distinction to her performance.
In keeping with tribal tradition she put on a belt with rainbow-colored tassels, tucking her skirt into it on the sides so it framed her hips perfectly. A simple black top tied in the front completed her clothing and her veil was of the same rich purple as the hem of her skirt. The entire effect was set off by layers of bangles and bracelets on her arms, along with ankle bells that rang with every step of her feet.
When Isabella arrived at the Oasis she didn’t even sneak a peek from the stage. She didn’t want Zayne to get a glimpse of her before her number began. She’d notified the band she wanted a chiftetelli, slow and sensuous to showcase her undulations and delicate hip work.
When her music started, she whirled onto the stage, knowing she looked her very best, willing Zayne’s eyes upon her with every step she took. For long moments she lost herself in the rhythm of the music, closing her eyes and imagining there was no one else in the room but her and her sultan, the desert a vast and empty space around them, as if they were the only two people in the world and her dance was meant for him alone.
She didn’t mingle with the crowd as she danced and she could see little of the room with the lights in her eyes, but she knew he was watching, could feel his gaze upon her as she whirled and spun and dropped to the floor as the song reached its close.
The applause was thunderous when she finished but she paid little heed to the whistles and zips around her as she stood. She was looking for a single face—the only man whose approval she craved as if her life depended on it.
He was nowhere to be found. His table was empty and pushed to the wall and she couldn’t catch a single glimpse of him in the throng of people at the back of the room. Disappointment hit like an ax to her chest, robbing her of breath and joy as she realized Zayne was nowhere near.
Forcing herself to bend and pick up the pile of money tossed at her feet—it wouldn’t be fair to the food bank if she let her pride make her selfish—Isabella took a last bow, disappeared behind the stage and gathered up her things, suddenly so tired she could barely manage to move.
It was only as she made her way down the street to her car that she heard Shamal come running up behind her.
“Silk. Silk,” he called. “Wait, please.” Isabella turned to see him carrying a beautiful box wrapped in crimson-colored paper. “Mr. Saladar left this for you with stern instructions you receive it tonight.” His voice said he would do nothing to risk Zayne’s continued benevolence and patronage.
Isabella took the box and forced herself to remain calm as she placed it in the backseat before thanking Shamal as he grinned and went back to work. Barely able to keep from stopping along the way and tearing into the present, she drove home quickly, poured herself a glass of wine and took the package to her couch, where she made herself take the time to admire the exquisite wrapping.
Then she ripped it to shreds in her haste to see what Zayne had tucked inside.
She gasped as she uncovered the first of the treasures, a filigreed gold necklace trimmed with bells—an exact match to the chain that held the tiny clamps he’d used at the Red Mask club.
Her nipples hardened instan
tly as she remembered him fastening the clamps around them, a pleasure so intense it bordered on pain. And when he’d fastened another clamp around her clit…
Isabella groaned and sucked down a gulp of wine, squeezing her legs together as the ache between them blossomed hard and fast. Resisting the urge to touch herself, she put on the necklace and dug back into the box, pulling out an outfit that would have made her grandmother shriek.
The top was nothing more than a vest of red silk that fastened beneath her breasts, with sheer sleeves that would flutter down her arms. The skirt—if it could be called that—was another band of ruby silk from which hung several panels of red chiffon, leaving absolutely nothing to the imagination.
And on a card—written in what Isabella was certain was Zayne’s own hand—was a request for her to meet him again on Saturday, wearing nothing but what was in the box.
All her determination to keep from seeing Zayne on a physical and personal level went flying out the window as she thought of him touching her, his hands reaching between her thighs, his mouth doing unspeakably wicked things as he spread her legs apart and drove his tongue into her body.
She would meet him one last time, she determined. One last time to thank him for the gifts, to demand why he hadn’t shown up to watch her dance…and to feel his body pressed to hers. Then she would be satisfied.
At least she hoped so.
* * * * *
Zayne had deliberately hidden himself from view when Silk took the stage. He’d planned on twisting her emotions up another notch after his praise of another dancer the night before but he’d realized he’d made a mistake as soon as she’d started to dance.
She was glorious, mesmerizing, a houri come to life. As he’d watched he’d been forced to acknowledge he was livid that any other man had dared set eyes upon her.
He knew it was brutish, knew it was wrong, but he’d been unable to stop the flood of fury that rushed into his soul. It was the way of the desert. It was the way of the land. It was the way of his people for hundreds of generations…
And it was what continued to keep women bound in slavery and pain.
Unable to shake off the knowledge of his betrayal Zayne had his driver take him to the Battery, where he walked along the edge of the sea, hoping the rush of the waves and water would clear the darkness from his heart.
Oh she would be punished, well and truly spanked for her seductive display, but it would be for both their pleasure—not in anger or with intent to harm.
And as he imagined her begging him for release, pictured her screaming his name in her need, he felt himself return to civilization, his heart scoured clean and his intellect intact.
Now he could sleep with a guiltless conscience as he patiently waited for the new day to arrive.
* * * * *
By the time Saturday night rolled around Isabella was already shaking, so aching with need she could barely manage to walk without a whimper as her thighs slid unhindered against each other beneath the scandalous skirt. Her breasts were another study in desire as they rubbed against the cloak she’d worn to keep from getting arrested as she made her way to the Red Mask Society.
Madame Manette was there to greet her as always, making certain her beautiful mask was firmly put in place before leaving her once more inside the ballroom doors.
But this time Zayne was not waiting by the stairs, nor was he standing near the bar, or anywhere else she could see among the crowd that flowed from wall to wall.
Several men studied her as they passed—some in masks as elaborate as her own, others not wearing any, but all of them having the same feral energy. These were men who understood their power and would not hesitate to use it. Men who knew how to seduce a woman with a single expert glance. Isabella was not immune to the heated looks that came her way.
The entire room radiated sex, as if the combined desires of all the members had taken on a life of their own, forging a web of erotic tendrils that permeated everything. It tucked itself under her cloak to skim along the surface of her skin before it drove itself into the very core of her desire.
Suddenly she saw couples entwined in every corner, their whispered cries of passion adding fuel to her already-simmering fire.
Where in the hell was Zayne Saladar?
Where were his hands? Where were his lips? And where was his beautifully unmarred cock, ready to burst from its dusky skin for her pleasure?
When one of the cocktail servers handed her an envelope that instructed Isabella to meet Zayne in his room she hurried down the hallway, heart hammering in wild anticipation, more than ready to obey his every command.
Zayne was already so hard he could barely think when he heard her tentative knock on the door. But he forced himself to wait until she knocked again, louder this time, showing she was just as ready for their night to begin.
“Come.” He was curious to see how she’d reacted to his absence the night before, more than willing to punish her if she had refused to wear the present he’d sent her. Or if she showed any sign of rebellion.
The thought of her bent across his bed, her legs spread, her ass bared for whatever he desired, sent a surge of blood rushing to his cock, the greedy beast raising its head even higher.
Then his dancer stood before him in all her dark beauty, the need in her eyes a match for his as she caught his glance across the room.
“Ah.” He sat straighter in his chair, unbolting his robe as she glided toward him, pleased when he heard her sharp intake of breath as she saw the swollen mass of his flesh. “Show me,” he told her when she made no move to take off her cloak, enjoying the knowledge that he would punish her for the hesitation. “Now.”
He rose from his chair as she continued to hold the concealing cloak around her.
With fumbling fingers she finally managed to unhook the clasp, letting the mass of material fall to the floor. He grunted in satisfaction, circling around her to study the effect from all sides, finding no fault in her rounded breasts, stomach and thighs. Such flesh was made for a man to take his fill of, pillows that cushioned each thrust of his hips, soft enough he could ride her as hard as he desired, not fearing he’d hurt her with bone jarring bone.
She trembled when he stepped behind her, his arms closing around her waist to test the weight of her breasts in his palms. Her nipples were already knotted into dusky peaks of flesh but he refused to touch them, despite her whimper of need.
Instead he ran his hands down her stomach, her skin as smooth as what she was named, halting just at the juncture of her thighs. She spread her legs automatically but he smacked her rounded ass soundly.
“I did not give you permission to move.” He shook his head as he circled to stand before her once more. “That is twice you have disobeyed me.”
“Twice?” She was full of female outrage as she raised her eyes to his, lowering them instantly when she saw he would be unrelenting in his punishment.
“Three times,” he purred. He watched her tremble as he reached for the golden clamps and held them aloft, the scent of her arousal rising full and sweet in the air around them. If he touched her now she would already be wet and waiting, but he had no intention of taking her so soon.
She continued to shake as he fastened one end of the chain to the collar around her neck. “This shows you belong to me and only me.” Taking pity on her obvious need, he fondled her breasts once more, rolling the plump nipples between his fingers until she bit her lip to keep from crying out. “Scream, little one. There is no one to hear you but me.”
Still she refused to make a sound as he fastened a clamp around one nipple before moving on to the next. Not that he thought she was in any real pain as she closed her eyes and whimpered. The clamps could be used for punishment if necessary, but for now they were intended only to enhance her pleasure.
Then he ordered her to spread her legs as he knelt before her. When she finally managed to obey her thighs quivered as if they would grow weak and let her slide helplessly to th
e floor. But his slave was made of sterner stuff, her muscles strong enough to hold her captive as he spread her sex, his fingers delving high into her cunt. Now she moaned with the force of her need, the sound as delightful as the bells of her chains when he took the final clamp and closed it around her clit.
She was perfect, Zayne decided as he stood to inspect his handiwork. Beautiful in her chains of gold, their tiny bells jingling with every shake of her body and intake of breath. With a sinful smile he tugged on the chain, knowing it would bring another cry of pleasure from her throat. He sat back in his chair to watch the show.
“Dance for me,” he ordered. His smile grew when he saw her eyes widen in shock. “Dance for me and do not come until I give you permission.” Zayne wondered if she might refuse his command, but she nodded mutely and shimmied, graceful beyond measure, obeying his orders as if she’d been born into his service.
Chapter Six
Isabella could barely keep her knees from buckling as she swirled around the floor, the clamps tightening around her nipples and clit with every move she made. Already she was close to climax as the physical sensation, combined with the dangerous set of Zayne’s jaw, aroused in her an ancient longing. To let him rule her—to be his slave.
His cock jutted high against his stomach, the dusky rod so engorged and hard she knew his need was a match for hers, and it made her own torment easier when she concentrated on her master’s pleasure. She straddled him on the chair, rolling her torso against his erection, stroking him with every undulation. When she saw the bead of moisture at its tip she reached down and smoothed it along the shaft, thrilled when he shifted in his chair, his hips pumping along with her hand.
Until he growled and snatched her fingers free. “I did not give you permission to touch me. That makes four.” His tone promised retaliation. “Now you will go and kneel by the bed to await my pleasure.”