The Dragon Earl

by Jade Lee

  She arched her brows. "That is ridiculous. There is no magic there. Only . . . Only .. ." Her thoughts splintered as his fingers began moving, slipping in and out through her folds, dipping deep inside her only to withdraw in exquisitely long strokes.

  "That is what I fantasize about. I dream of tasting a woman," he said as he shifted between her thighs. "May I taste your essence?"

  She blinked, the sensual fog slowing her thoughts. "What?"

  He shifted his hands, too fast for her to follow. He slid his hands beneath her buttocks and lifted her up. She gasped in alarm but retained enough sense not to cry out. She didn't dare risk someone hearing her.

  Her body was dislodged from the tree trunk, and her head fell to the side and backwards. He lifted her up easily, draw­ing her center up to his mouth. She flailed with her hands, trying to keep her balance, but there was none. Her upper body dropped backwards to the grass and her chest arched to the sky.

  She felt completely disconnected from the world. Her legs were high and open, her back flat on the ground. It was like the storm had upended her, as if the winds had tumbled her head over heels. How appropriate then that the rain began to kiss her inner thighs. How wonderful to feel the wetness of his mouth as he began to drink.

  His mouth was large as it pressed to her center. His lips were wet, his tongue broad as he began long sweeps across her body. Each stroke built the thunder in her blood, each probe of his tongue shot lightning through her mind. She was adrift in the storm, unable to resist and completely consumed. And this was exactly what she wanted.

  He lifted her up higher, and her legs felt spread so wide she thought she might split. Suction and stroke, thrust and caress, his mouth did all to her. Nothing was left untouched, and all of her was spread before him.

  More. She tried to draw him closer. The deeper his touch, the more all-consuming his stroke, the better she liked it.

  But he controlled the pressure of his mouth. Her arch meant nothing as he adjusted his grip. Then he began the rhythm of thrust and pull while she echoed with gasps and whimpers.

  The tension built within her belly. She was familiar with this, but with him, it was so much more. And this too he con­trolled, slipping lower on her body to drink her essence while the higher spot throbbed and cooled. Then, switching, a quick circle or sudden thrust high and her legs would trem­ble, her mind blanked white in a lightning flash.

  Yes! Oh yes!

  He pulled back just a bit, only enough to murmur against her thigh, "I will drink all of you now. Be careful not to scream."

  She pressed the back of one hand to her mouth as she sometimes did in bed. A whimper of hunger escaped anyway, but that only added to the storm.

  His tongue was so perfect as it stroked her. Again and again—thick and hard—while her blood roared and her back arched. Again. One last. . .

  Yes!

  The storm claimed her. The buffeting contortions of body and breath combined into ecstasy. Oh yes . . . Oh! Too much!

  In her bed she would have stopped. She would have ridden the waves of the storm to silence and blissful sleep. But he didn't stop. He continued to drink her, his tongue stroking and pulling and exciting her whenever the contractions began to fade. On and on he went, while her mind grappled with reality and lost. Her body convulsed while he drank. She wasn't a storm any­more, she was lightning—bright, electric, and wholly white.

  Then he stopped.

  Thank God, she thought. Then, Oh no. It is ending.

  The sensations continued, but the steady stimulation of his tongue had ceased. He was lowering her gently to the ground.

  "I am sorry," he said in a hushed and reverent tone. "I could not continue without you screaming."

  He would have continued? The very thought of remaining longer in that blindingly bright place was both terrifying and so wonderful that she smiled. Her breath was returning to normal, her body lay boneless and sated on the ground. He adjusted her skirt, stretching the fabric out to cover her de­murely. Or as demurely as it could, with her stretched out on the ground like a wanton.

  "How do you feel?" he asked gently.

  Wonderful. Expansive. Cold. The air was cold.

  "The joy ... it is fading, isn't it?"

  She nodded, trying to hold on to the experience as long as she could.

  "Search inside yourself, Evelyn, deep inside. Your body is content, but what of your mind? What of your heart?"

  She frowned, irritated that he was pulling her away from that glorious blank place she had become.

  "Does the bliss extend inside that deep? Or do you still know restlessness—a vague discontent that even the best ex­perience of body cannot erase?"

  She swallowed, slowly pushing up onto her elbows as she stared at him. "How can you know that?" she whispered. Everything he said was absolutely true. Deep in her heart, she was still unhappy. And she hadn't even known it until this very moment.

  "That is what it means to be a monk, Evie. To know deep inside that there is an emptiness and to search eternally for the way to fill it."

  She shook her head. "It's not true," she whispered. "Monks are at peace. They are filled with . . . with God's holy pres­ence, or something like that."

  Jie Ke shrugged. "Perhaps that is so. I believe it is so for the masters. But for me . . ." His voice trailed away, and she saw a bleakness in his expression. "I am still searching."

  "But..." She didn't know what she wanted to ask. She looked at him, at the bulge beneath his robes, and the sprawled openness of her own body. "But I was satisfied. For a moment.. ." For many incredible moments. "I felt wonderful."

  He nodded, and his hand trembled on her thigh. "And I would feel it too, if I listened to the demands of my flesh. I could bury myself within you and find the same mindless-ness. But in the morning . . ."

  She shook her head, not wanting to think of the conse­quences she would face in the morning.

  He continued, "The dictates of society would be difficult enough, but there would be something much worse: the emptiness in my heart. Physical bliss is all-consuming until it fades. And then what am I left with but a discontent all the more stark because the sex did not fill it? The pleasures of the body alone cannot ever fill the heart and mind."

  The picture he painted was so bleak she almost cried out. "How can you stand it? To live in such emptiness?"

  "We all live in it. We simply deny it, suppress it, throw our­selves into the body to hide from it. To be a monk . . ."

  "Is to see the truth with clarity," she whispered, startled to realize that she understood.

  "And to search for a better answer." Then he pushed to his feet, adjusting his robes with a rueful grimace. She pulled her knees tight to her chest, making sure her skirt covered all of her. He bowed before her, deeply and reverendy. "Good night, Evelyn."

  She nodded, too full of strange thoughts to respond, but the words came out automatically. "Good night, Jie Ke."

  Then he left. She remained for hours later, her mind churning and twisting with all they had said and done. In the end, she had reached only one conclusion: being a monk was not so easy as putting on an orange robe and begging for alms. What shook her the most, however, was that she now believed him. Jie Ke was a monk.

  Chapter Eight

  "Your nighttime wanderings seem to have done you good."

  Jie Ke blinked his eyes open and squinted at his friend. Zhi Min was squatting over his makeshift pallet on the floor, a grin on his face.

  "What?" Jie Ke managed as he rubbed his eyes.

  "You were smiling," Zhi Min said. He straightened.

  "I was asleep," Jie Ke groused.

  "Nevertheless."

  Jie Ke shot him a glare but couldn't hold it. Within a mo­ment he realized he was smiling. He sat up and stretched sore muscles. Then he felt the familiar ache of physical de­sire, remembered what had prompted his current state, and his smile grew.

  "Who were you dreaming about?" Zhi Min asked. His gaze dropped to Ji
e Ke's crotch. "I don't have to ask what you were doing."

  Jie Ke didn't answer. Instead, he hopped up and began his morning ablutions. The ache of desire did nothing to dim his good humor. Every boy from the age of twelve knew this par­ticular ache. And if any woman were worthy of his discom­fort, it was Evelyn.

  "Have you thought about what we discussed yesterday?" Zhi Min asked.

  Jie Ke grimaced, his mood abruptly dipping. "I will be­come more English this afternoon. My grandmother's doing."

  He sighed. "We will need more money, though. I must pay the tailor, and the shoemaker, and heaven only knows whom else."

  Zhi Min slowed as he wrapped his robe about his shoul­ders. "You wish to fight again. And to let the English bet against you."

  Jie Ke shrugged. "Do you know a better way? Yes, I'd prefer it if they gave us alms to survive, but this is England not China. And you just gave away our entire purse yesterday." He could not keep the note of irritation from his voice.

  His friend kept his gaze hooded. "It was important for you to understand the difference between a monk and—"

  "And an English lord. I understand, Zhi Min, but we still have to pay for my clothes."

  Zhi Min finished adjusting his robe, and his gaze seemed heavy and troubled. "Do you fight because you need money? Or because the anger is building inside you again?"

  Hatred boiled up hot and hard inside Jie Ke, but he was prepared. He held it back, swallowed it, tamped it down so tight it was hidden from everyone, including himself. When he spoke, he kept his voice light and easy. "You gave away all our money, but I need to pay for my clothing somehow. That's why I fight." Then he flashed a saucy grin. "I can't help it if I enjoy winning."

  "You enjoy the fight, Jie Ke. Why? Do you know why you are so very angry?"

  He fury struggled to explode, but Jie Ke kept it tight in­side. Instead, he rolled his eyes. "But it is so very, very easy to win in England! How many fights have I lost so far? Let me think. . ." He snapped his fingers. "None! And let us re­member that without these fights and the money I win, we would never have made it halfway here."

  Thankfully Zhi Min didn't challenge his answer, but his expression was still troubled. "I do not like this fighting for money. The mob gets very angry at losing so much."

  Jie Ke shrugged. "I don't force them to bet. I merely col­lect their money when they lose."

  "It is wrong to encourage their vices in such a way. Many of them cannot afford the loss."

  "And many can. Those who cannot afford it will learn not to wager." He turned as Mei Li entered the room. "I only take the coin they have; I dun no one." Then he smiled at Zhi Min's younger sister. "Can you find us another fight?"

  She looked up, her eyes sparkling. She loved taking the En­glish money as much as he did. "I have heard of a fight to be held in two days. I shall make sure your name is among the warriors." She turned to her brother. "And you?"

  Zhi Min held up his hands. "I am there merely to make sure you both stay alive. The last mob—"

  "Stop whining," Jie Ke said with a grin. "We both know the real reason you won't fight. You know I'd put you to shame."

  Zhi Min arched his eyebrow. "I believe you require a thrashing, young master. Maybe then you will remember that a man at peace inside is always the better fighter."

  Jie Ke was laughing as they left the room. This was the best he had felt for many a morning. He was practically swagger­ing as he walked the path to the grove. He knew in his heart that today his martial arts skills would be at their finest.

  Apparently, his heart was ill informed. He fought terribly. It was one thing to wake with an erection, dreams of lust reminding him that his body was alive and healthy and yearning for a beautiful woman. It was another thing en­tirely to fight with such a distraction. He kept waiting for Evelyn to step around the corner, to watch him as she had yesterday. Would she walk into his fighting pattern and dare him to kiss her again? His best friend took advantage of the situation.

  "You have the concentration of a howling monkey. The English will take your money and laugh while they do it."

  "It is what happens to a man when he is about to become English," Jie Ke bed. He gestured to where his grandmother had come onto the lawn to watch. "She is anxious to change me back into Jacob."

  "She wants her family returned to her. It is understandable, if undesirable. Honor her as she deserves."

  Jie Ke bowed, taking the admonishment as deserved. His grandmother was due a great deal of respect, though he could not bring himself to give it willingly. He even had to force himself to stand in her presence. "Her face powder makes me sneeze," he groused. They were speaking in Chinese so she would not understand.

  "So, do not breathe deeply when standing beside her," Zhi Min responded. Then he turned to the elderly lady, bowing deeply. "Your grandson is most anxious to begin his day with you," he said in English.

  The old woman immediately brightened, her pale cheeks turning pink with happiness. "Truly? I confess to a great deal of excitement as well." Her watery gaze turned to Jie Ke. "Are you ready then? Shall I send for the tailor?"

  "A few moments longer, Grandmother. Please allow me to bathe."

  "Oh, yes. Of course." She clapped her hands with the vigor he remembered. "Very well, but be quick about it!"

  He bowed to her, holding his breath as he did. "Right away," he responded. And then he sneezed four times.

  Exhausted! That's how he felt, completely exhausted. And all he had done was stand still while being pricked, prodded, and touched until he nearly screamed. And that was when he wasn't sneezing. Who would have guessed that the tailor favored cosmetic powder as well?

  Thankfully, his grandmother and the fussy tailor had spent a great deal of time apart from him, deciding on the fabrics and styles. It was quite a discussion. Had he known that English men were as vain about their clothing as the women? He didn't think so. But then again, his mother and nanny had made all those decisions when he was a child. Thank Heaven he would never have to go through that torture again! A monk's robes were the height of simplicity, and they allowed a man's body to breathe. He hoped it took weeks for the cloth­ing to be sewn. Perhaps he could be back in China by the time they were finished, and then he'd never have to wear—

  "Excellent news, Jacob!" his grandmother crowed. "Mr. Barker has at least two pair of everything you need already made. You can get out of those robes immediately and be a proper English gentleman for dinner tonight! Well, except for the boots, of course. I'm afraid those will have to wait for to­morrow."

  Thank God for small favors. That had been his mother's favorite expression. He'd never truly under-stood it until now.

  "Oh!" she exclaimed as she clapped her hands together. "I can't wait until everyone sees you turned out as a proper En­glish gentleman."

  He didn't care about "everyone," though he wondered how Evelyn would react. And Zhi Min, of course. Would his judge see that he was adopting his birth country's attitudes? Or would Zhi Min see through to his core and know that Jie Ke was only faking it? He had no wish to embrace his her­itage, he merely wanted to get through this last trial so that he could discard it all for vows and a full life as a monk. But ei­ther way, his path was clear, and after a few more sneezes he agreed to allow Mr. Barker's assistants to help him dress.

  "Stop fidgeting. Even the young novices aren't so twitchy."

  Jie Ke forced his body still even as he glared over his shoul­der at Zhi Min. They were descending the stairs to the main parlor on this longest day of his life. After a morning spent with the tailor, his grandmother decided he needed to remem­ber the basics of English deportment. He had relearned how to sit, how to stand, how to speak. All of it brought back child­hood scolds with vivid clarity. Lord, no wonder he preferred the temple. Certainly the Xi Lin had their own rigid set of rules, but at least he hadn't been strapped up in too-tight clothing and choked to death with a necktie.

  "Are you ready to eat the English food?" Zhi Min a
sked as they reached the main floor.

  Jie Ke shrugged, then abruptly stopped as the movement pulled at his tie, which strangled him even further. He looked at the footman who stood before the closed parlor door. It was time to make his grand entrance. At least he still got to wear his soft Chinese boots.

  With a smile and a flourish, the footman drew open the parlor door. Zhi Min stood behind and to the side, watching with a wide grin. Meanwhile, Jie Ke tried to block out his friend's humor while scanning the room for one person. He found her in the corner, being the gracious hostess as she entertained three girls barely into their adolescence and the high-voiced Lord Greenfield, who continued speaking, obliv­ious to Jie Ke's entrance. But everyone else stopped to stare. Titters began at the same moment Lord Greenfield realized he'd lost his audience. First came the not-so-discreet coughs, then the awkward throat clearing, and finally outright gig­gles.

  "I say, dear boy," intoned Lord Greenfield as he finally turned toward the door, quizzing glass at the ready. "Lovely boots, there. Did you bring them in from the stable?"

  It was meant as an insult, of course, but Jie Ke had lived as a foreign boy in China and knew how to handle insults. He'd learned from the street boys who came in to the tem­ple for meals. Add to it a dash of his imperious grandfather, and he had the perfect response delivered in the most cul­tured English tones he could manage. "They're delightful. Cool in summer, warm in winter, and so soft inside that it's like being cradled in a willing woman." He paused. "In truth, I cannot take a step without thinking of your charming mother."

  The man sputtered in outrage. His wife and a few others gasped and turned their backs on Jie Ke. The young girls just stared, frowning in their innocence. But, what was Evelyn do­ing? His gaze centered on her face and the slight wrinkle be­tween her brows. She noticed his attention, of course, and cut her gaze sharply across the room to his grandmother.

  Jie Ke had a moment's guilt that he hadn't even noticed the elderly woman ensconced near the fire. But then he under­stood Evelyn's silent message, and a great deal more guilt weighted his spirit. His jab at Lord Greenfield was not the kind of thing said in front of ladies. And now he had embar­rassed the poor woman who just this morning had been brimming with joy.