The Way of the Tigress 1-4

by Jade Lee - The Way of the Tigress 1-4

  He closed his eyes, looking away from her to focus on his breath. Only his breath.

  The caress of cool water prickled his fevered skin. And the brush of one pert breast came against his arm. Her lips gently pressed against his belly.

  His eyes flew open. A kiss? That had not been part of Little Pearl's example!

  "Why did you do that?" he asked, his voice harsh.

  She was licking her lips, tasting them even as they became redder, wetter, and curved by the faintest of smiles; "Wondered," was all she said.

  Wondered what? What he would taste like? Or what it was like to kiss a man? Either way, it made Zou Tun release a frustrated growl. He wanted to grab her. He wanted to drop her on the bed and plant himself deeply inside her. He wanted to do it fast and hard and in a way that only beasts acted.

  And wasn't that the point? He was a beast. Or he could be. But he wanted to be an immortal. Or at least an enlightened man. And so he would restrain himself. He would learn to master his desires in the only way possible: with a woman, and with stimulation.

  He closed his eyes again, willing his body to relax, forcing his breath to steady. It didn't work. Especially as Joanna began to wash his legs. Starting at his feet, she cleaned him with water, the rough brush of fabric as erotic as anything that he had ever felt.

  He knew it was only a game of the mind. He had been washed before and not indulged in sexual activity. It was only because that act was denied him that his entire being focused on her. She was leaning across him, washing the leg farthest from her so her bare belly pressed against him. Her skin was soft and smooth—a woman's skin.

  He inhaled deeply, trying to clear his mind. Instead, that brought her scent to him. She was aroused. That odor meant only one thing. And yet, there was more to it as well. It was Joanna's scent and hers alone. And her face and body formed in his mind whenever he closed his eyes.

  He wanted to move, wanted to arch his hips, wanted so many things. He had been uncomfortable before. He had sat in meditative poses while his hips or his knee or some part of his body burned with pain. He had been able to look beyond it, to see that the pain, the hunger, the desire—all of it was only a part of who he was. It was only a small fraction of his consciousness.

  But this desire was not isolated to one part of his body. It was all-consuming. It throbbed through his entire being. It was him.

  No! He was more than this. He was more than his desire. Even as her cloth began to touch him, began to cleanse between his thighs and the soft underbelly of his dragon, he could be more than this.

  Except that he couldn't. Her touch conquered his mind. It aroused his body. It tormented his soul.

  And then she set the cloth aside.

  He didn't dare open his eyes. The sight of her lips coming down around his dragon stem would be too much. But he couldn't stop himself. He wanted to see what she looked like as she touched a man's dragon—probably for the first time.

  He had expected her eyes to be hooded, shrouded in shyness. They weren't. Her eyes were wide-open, her head tilted to one side. She had used the washcloth on his dragon. But now she reached out, her touch hesitant but her interest clearly engaged.

  With one finger she stroked his dragon head, darker now as it thrust fully forward. He felt the stroke like the touch of lightning searing through his body. His hips jerked; his dragon spit—but just a little: the single pearl bead that Tigresses prized so very much.

  She had been unprepared for his reaction, so she drew back. Her expression was open as she studied his body. But what thoughts were swirling in her mind, he couldn't fathom. What did a ghost woman think when presented with an imperial dragon?

  Apparently she thought it was funny. Her lips were curved in humor. He was sure of it. Then, as he watched and as she began to play with his dragon, her lips drew into a full smile. She touched his tip, swirling the bead of moisture around. Then she pulled her fingers to her lips, closing her eyes to smell the dragon pearl. She opened her mouth, extending the tiniest tip of her pink tongue to taste it.

  The sight nearly undid him. Zou Tun felt his dragon contract, pulling together in preparation to throw his seed.

  "Stop!" he ordered. "Stop it now!"

  It took a moment for her to understand. First she whipped her hand away from her mouth. Then he gestured, and her eyes widened. She comprehended: He wanted her to press on the jen-mo point, to stop the flow of his dragon cloud.

  She moved to help him, but her hands were uncertain, her fingers fumbling. At another time her nervous movements would have made his dragon retreat in fear. Not this time. His dragon knew it was her hands and touch. It stretched for her, aching for her caress no matter how abrupt.

  She lifted the dragon's soft belly, painfully jostling the twin houses of his dragon cloud. Then, mercifully, she found the spot. She pressed in hard with her middle finger, holding back the cloud in the place where—on a woman—the child would emerge. Stopping the energy flow from there cut off the power that fed his dragon.

  She held her finger in place, her hand naturally cupping his dragon's belly. It was a war of needs.

  Above her hand his dragon still strained, loving the caress of her hand but needing the qi power she had removed. In his mind, as well, he fought bestial hunger, straining to stay on the Taoist path to immortality. In his mind he knew he must stay on the Middle Path, but his dragon and the heat of her breath across his belly drew him to the surrounding jungle.

  Until his need eased. Until his dragon starved enough for him to draw his mind and his body back to the Tao.

  He took another deep breath, trying to block her scent from his thoughts, and slowly released his rigid control.

  "Thank you," he breathed.

  Opening his eyes, he found her studying him again, seeing everything from his flushed face down to his curled toes. She looked at all of him until her gaze finally returned to his face. And as their gazes locked, she slowly withdrew her hand.

  The brush of her fingers against his stem brought his dragon instantly back to life. But even that faded as he focused on her eyes. Her beautiful eyes, like polished bronze. He let himself get lost in those eyes, searching and finding the fire that seemed to light them from within.

  So mesmerized was he that he nearly missed that she was moving over his dragon again. That her ruby lips were opening. And that, inch by inch, she was drawing him into her mouth.

  He groaned. He could not help it. The moist, slick slide of her tongue across his dragon head made his eyes roll back in ecstasy. He knew what his task was now. He knew he was to allow the stimulation to draw his mind upward to Heaven into immortality. He knew this, but his mind would not go. His thoughts remained earthbound. With Joanna.

  No matter how much he struggled, no matter how much he tried to ignore the curl of her tongue, the pull of her kiss, and the—sweet Heaven—grip of her hand around his stem, his dragon became everything he was, and her lips his entire world.

  He felt his dragon muscles tighten. He knew the white heat consumed his mind. He fought, railing against it, but it was no use. It was too overwhelming.

  She was too powerful.

  And he was...

  "Help!" he cried even as he thrust forward, deeper inside her mouth.

  She was there even before the sound faded from the room. She lifted from his dragon, her fingers quickly finding and pressing the jen-mo point, stopping the flow of qi until his buttocks relaxed and his breathing slowed.

  He opened his eyes, even though the power of his dragon fire still pounded in his blood, demanding release. He found what he sought immediately—her eyes—and he settled into the shifting colors there. Her pupils were large, their dark circles reminding him of the dusky points of her breasts. But around those pupils, around those dark centers, there remained a shimmer of blue and green. The colors of sky and earth. The whole world was right there in her eyes.

  And with that expansion of awareness, the grip of his hunger eased.

  "Thank
you," he whispered, his voice hoarse.

  She arched a single eyebrow at him, her eyes narrowing. "Feel powerless, Zou Tun?" she rasped. Then she shifted her hand off the jen-mo point to the place where she held—and squeezed—his dragon. Her grip wasn't strong, but it held the threat of much more force. "Your body is beyond your control?" She shifted her fingers, massaging the twin houses of his cloud. With the qi flow restored, his dragon thrust into her hand, despite the denial of his thoughts.

  Then she smiled. It was an angry, harsh smile, filled with the power of her position. And with his vulnerability.

  "You did this to me," she said, her voice strengthening despite the pain it must have caused her. "You took my voice from me. My freedom."

  And then her other hand began to move. Slowly at first, stroking his dragon stem up and down. She smiled, her red lips widening.

  He knew what was to come. She was going to milk his stem, pull the dragon cloud from him, take his yang seed into her body, where she would use it to gain immortality for herself. She would take his power—and a year of his life—and there was nothing he could do about it. Her body would grow more youthful, her soul would step higher to Heaven, and he would be discarded. He would become a used thing of no more importance than that beggar.

  He shook his head, unable to form a thought, unable to do more than beg for mercy. But her hands were relentless, the heat of her breath on his dragon head even more so. Heedless of the danger, his entire body began to clench. White-hot lightning poured through his mind and body.

  "No. Please," he begged.

  She simply shook her head. Then, as he watched, she opened her mouth, extending the tip of her pink tongue. He watched her move, his breath already suspended, his Taoist control shattered.

  Her tongue touched his tip. And in its one long, meandering stroke, he lost all control. His dragon thrust into her hand, pushing as far into her mouth as he could.

  But she pulled away. Her mouth, her face, her entire body separated from him. Except for her hands, which continued their maddening rhythm.

  Her message was clear: He would not control even the manner of his yang loss.

  And then, with a soft, almost gentle smile, she moved her thumb. The thrust of his hips had revealed all of his dragon head, leaving the underside fully exposed. Her thumb touched it, the most sensitive ridge just behind the head.

  His body exploded. Mind, heart, and soul—all flew from him in the roar of dragon fire. Over and over his dragon roared, disgorging his essence. So powerful was his loss that he had no doubt he had lost a year of his life, a year of his power, all for her use.

  Except her mouth was not on his dragon. She did not catch anything, but let his seed spill uselessly—wastefully—onto his belly.

  When his breath returned, when some measure of consciousness formed in his weakened body, he slowly forced his eyes to open. She had taken away her hands, removing them from his body, casually wiping her fingers clean while he struggled to think.

  His gaze slid down to his belly, where his essence lay. "Why?" he whispered. Why had she not taken his power into her body? Why had she not used him as a Tigress would, for her own betterment?

  Her demeanor remained calm, her expression relaxed, and she pushed up from her position by his side. As he watched, she straightened to her full height, her white breasts still gloriously displayed before him.

  "Why?" she said, her words mocking despite their raw sound. "Because I have no use for any part of you."

  The Tao produces myriad things, lets nature take its course, and is selfless and unprejudiced. Rulers should take this as their model, governing through non-action and silence and living at peace with the people, which in the end leads to a naturally tranquil society.

  —Lao Tzu

  Chapter 10

  Joanna pulled on her shirt, pleased with the afternoon's work. Not only had she found out her monk's name, Zou Tun, but she had also made her position clear. She was a strong American woman who would not be lied to. She didn't need him. She needed... Her thoughts trailed away, as she was unsure how to finish.

  She needed something. But it wasn't him. And so she'd shown him.

  She would have completed the gesture by walking out of the room, but truthfully she didn't know where she'd go. Though she worried about her father, she didn't want to go home. Her whole idea several days ago had been to spend some time away, to help mastermind a great revolution against an imperial oppressor. She hadn't expected to land here, but then, she hadn't expected the revolutionaries to attack her either.

  Which meant what? At the moment it meant that she wanted to learn what the Tigress Shi Po taught. It meant that she would stay here, even performing certain exercises with certain men that left her insides quivering and her hands unsteady. She would stay even if her face remained flushed and her blood seemed to pulse, pulse, pulse throughout her body.

  This was something she wanted to learn. She wanted Little Pearl's peace. She wanted to find her own center. Even if it meant she had to remain here with Zou Tun to get it.

  She walked to the door, pulling it open to retrieve a tray of food. Beside the tray lay parchment, ink, and a brush. It would be difficult to write a letter to her father in English with the Chinese brush, but she would find a way. Assuming, of course, that she could figure out the words to use.

  Behind her she heard her monk—no, she corrected herself. She heard Zou Tun moving about, no doubt cleaning himself up and covering his shame. Listening to his movements she couldn't suppress a smile.

  She had bested him! A man who could fight off five determined revolutionaries, a man whose body rippled with power and dominance—he was a man who was, after all, still just a man. One who could be bested by the simplest of techniques, in the simplest of ways. The way of the Tigress.

  And though Joanna's father would be horrified by her actions, she didn't care. What she was learning here was power. And it was a power that could be learned nowhere else. So she intended to grasp it with both hands... so to speak.

  "You are very pleased with yourself." His words startled her. She hadn't forgotten his presence; in truth, she was excruciatingly aware of his every move, his every breath. But she hadn't expected him to speak so calmly about anything, least of all what had just occurred. He was supposed to be hiding his shame or blustering in embarrassment. Not calmly evaluating her mood.

  Still, she had decided on this course, so she would not run. She turned, facing him square in the eye. And then she allowed her most brilliant, smug grin to grow upon her face.

  "Do all ghost people take such pleasure in humiliation?" he asked.

  Her grin faltered but did not fade. Instead she simply shook her head, and pointed a long, angry finger at him.

  He nodded. "Yes, I deserved such treatment. And I accept it as appropriate punishment." He folded his arms across his bare chest. He had not bothered to put any clothing on at all, but had come to his feet, his glorious body challenging her by his simple ease with his own nudity. "But I do not know if ghost people remain trapped inside their anger, reveling in another's anguish"—he lifted his chin—"or if they dispense punishment and move on. Is my humiliation complete?"

  She swallowed, the last of her grin fading. His question was reasonable, and she was a reasonable woman. She saw no point in bearing grudges, especially as her point was made. The Tigress had selected them to be partners. She could be the bigger person and move past his transgression to a larger place. A better place. In the name of Christian charity or Tigress betterment, she would not hurt him any further.

  She dipped her head. "I believe we understand each other." The words hurt her damaged throat, but she felt them important enough to say aloud. And he apparently agreed, because he too smiled. Warmly. Hugely. And in such a way as to make her incredibly wary.

  "Excellent," he said as he reached for the tray of food. "Then I suggest we enjoy our meal." He extended his chin toward the paper and ink. "You intend to write your father?"
/>   She nodded, looking dumbly at the writing implements in her hand.

  "Good. We shall eat. You shall compose your letter. And then we shall begin your exercises."

  He spoke the words casually, as if the plan were of no more import than whether they went for a ride on horseback or in a carriage that afternoon. But she caught a glimmer of malice in his eyes. Or was it anticipation? Or maybe it was just the simple pleasure of eating after so much exertion. He certainly was popping steamed dumplings into his mouth as if he were starving.

  But if he was starving, why did his eyes linger on her? Why did his attention center on her breasts, which were modestly covered? And why had she not thought that he would want revenge?

  Even if she thought the matter over, even if he stated he deserved and accepted his punishment, did he really mean it? Or did he intend to strike when she was at her most vulnerable?

  He didn't speak, though he obviously understood her anxiety. He was starting to smile. More than smile, in fact. His grin grew and grew. It was there on his face when he offered her a bowl of rice. It was there in his movements when he shifted on the bed, offering her a seat. And it was there in his entire demeanor when she declined, choosing instead to try to compose her letter to her father.

  There really wasn't any choice in what she wrote. Only one thing would quiet his fears, keep him from rousing the entire country searching for her. Still, she hesitated to write it with the monk right beside her, his enjoyment of her discomfort a tangible presence in the room. Her only comfort was that he probably couldn't read English. So she made quick work of her letter, folding it and setting it outside their door. She knew the Tigress's husband would see it delivered.

  Which left her alone, once again, with the consequences of her actions: Zou Tun with an unholy grin on his face.

  Rather than deal with him, she decided to eat. She didn't have much of an appetite—or so she thought. In truth, the moment she lifted the egg soup to her lips, she found herself ravenous. It was all she could do to keep herself from gobbling the food like a beast.