Free The Pleasure Slave by Gena Showalter Page B

day. Sweet as a sundae, remember? Except, now the whipped cream was splayed across the floor. She forced herself to smile, as if practically slicing herself in half was an everyday occurrence.
    “We have to talk.” Gentle voice. “There’s something I need to ask you.”
    “My attention is yours.” He stood with his legs braced apart, arms folded. A prebattle stance, she was sure. “You may begin.”
    Running a hand down the length of her ponytail, she mentally catalogued her planned speech. She drew in a deep breath and then slowly released each molecule of air. “In America, when a man and woman are attracted to each other, they begin to date. Dating might include a romantic dinner, followed by a walk on the beach, or a—”
    “Halt there, little dragon,” he said, silencing her words. “We must eat ere you lecture me, for I am in desperate need of sustenance.”
    She frowned. “I’ll have you know I do not lecture. I simply state facts.”
    “These facts can be stated after we dine.”
    True, but her nervous system might collapse by then. Still she muttered, “Of course,” like a good little brownie sundae.
    In the kitchen, beams of sunlight filtered through thelarge bay window, enveloping the room in a cheerful ring. She grabbed a blueberry muffin from the counter and turned, holding out the offering like a priceless treasure. “Here you go…” Her words tapered to quiet. A shaft of light illuminated Tristan’s hair, creating a glossy halo around his face. He was Hercules come to life just then, only he had a bigger…well, a bigger everything.
    How sickening, she thought, that one man could be so gorgeous.
    “I thank you,” he said, accepting the muffin.
    Sighing, she pivoted to the counter and began her morning ritual. Fill coffeepot with water. Drain water into percolator. Scoop grounds.
    “Sit,” Tristan ordered. He set his muffin aside and pried the coffee tin from her hands—an action no one else had ever done and lived to tell the tale. His fingertips brushed her palm, causing shafts of electricity to rush up her arm. “I shall do this duty.”
    She gulped and pulled away. “Do you know how to make coffee?”
    His features lit with wry amusement. “The knowledge I gained on other planets far surpasses that of Am-erica.”
    “Your knowledge stems from almost a century ago,” she pointed out.
    “That is sufficient.”
    “So you know what to do?”
    “I have traveled the ages, little dragon. I can manage to concoct one morning beverage.”
    Okay, then. Without another word, Julia plopped down on the stool behind the counter. Her new positiongave her a better view, anyway. Crossing and uncrossing her legs, she watched the corded muscles of Tristan’s stomach tighten with every move he made. She watched the way his nipples puckered in the cool, early morning air. Then she watched him saunter across the tile barefoot and stop at the faucet, revealing his naked back.
    She gasped. To cover the sound, she uttered a quick cough. Thankfully he didn’t seem to notice, and she was able to study his back in more detail. Thick, jagged scars laced every inch of flesh. Some intersected, some stood alone, but all of them were badges of pain. She’d noticed the slight marks on his chest, but these…What had he suffered?
    As she studied his back more intently, she noticed a small tattoo rested on the upper left side of his shoulder blade. A black symbol, almost Oriental in appearance, utterly provocative and endearingly sexy. Another tattoo, very similar in appearance, decorated the curve of his lower back and dipped past his pants.
    “What do those symbols mean?”
    He glanced at her over his shoulder. “Conquer and destroy.”
    How appropriate.
    “Do you usually rise this early?” he asked.
    She tore her attention from his back and glanced at the wall clock. Six-thirty. “Today is a work day. I have to get up early.”
    “Yet you hardly slept last night.”
    Her eyes narrowed. “How do you