Stephen Knight - White Tiger

He expected the maid, or the gardener, or someone who would tell him to go away. He didn’t expect Valerie Lin to open her own door and stare at him with dark, unblinking eyes that held the key to the universe. She wore a black silk shirt with a high collar. An ivory comb secured her hair, exposing her graceful neck. Her expression and her body language gave nothing away. He wanted her to say something; she didn’t. It was up to him to dig his own grave.

“I’m sorry to trouble you,” he said.

“Are you?” Her harsh tone surprised him; he hadn’t expected that.

“If this is a bad time for you, if I’m interrupting something-”

She turned and walked along the hallway, leaving the door open. An invitation? He took it as such, stepping inside and shutting it behind him. He looked upstairs, and into adjoining rooms. No sign of anyone. Valerie Lin disappeared into the living room. He followed her, and braced himself for a tirade of histrionic shouting, a delayed reaction to his delivering the news of her husband’s death. Was this why he’d driven here? Was he obeying some subliminal instinct that knew she had to let off steam before she exploded?

In the living room she touched a button that caused the curtains to close, blocking the view of the garden and the sea beyond. Dim yellow wall lights came on automatically, illuminating the ceiling and casting a soft glow over the room. She walked to a wooden cabinet and opened its doors.

“What would you like to drink, Detective Sergeant?”

“I’m on duty. Thanks anyway, Mrs. Lin.”

“You don’t mind if I have one?”

“Help yourself.” His voice sounded rough to his own ears. He wanted to ask for some water but sensed that something was going on, something damn weird.

She opened a bottle and half-filled a tumbler glass. She added ice and lemon and a splash of something else he didn’t see. She turned to face him. She leaned back against the cabinet and folded her arms, swilling the drink in the glass. She took a sip, apparently found it to her liking, took another.

“Before my husband died, this would have been utterly unthinkable,” she said.

He wasn’t sure what “this” was so he kept his mouth shut, let her do the talking.

“Allowing a stranger into our house. A man. A white.” She swirled her drink, the ice cubes clinked. “And drinking alcohol. Shocking. Forbidden. For guests only. Never for the dutiful wife.” This time she took a mouthful, closing her eyes. “I dismissed my servants for the night. I wanted to be alone. Or thought I did. They will not leave their quarters unless I call them. Should I call them?”

Ryker shook his head, feeling helpless. “I don’t know, Mrs. Lin. Do you need them for something?”

“I need them, Detective Sergeant, to restore my sense of duty and obligation. I need them to help preserve my honor. I need them so I will remember who and what I am. My husband is dead.” She closed her eyes and sucked in a deep breath. “My husband is dead.” She opened her eyes again, and held him spellbound with her unblinking gaze. “His ghost is doomed to walk the earth until he is avenged. He is here, watching us, listening to our conversation. He disapproves of our meeting under these circumstances. He wishes you to leave, at once.” She almost shouted the words.

Ryker didn’t know what she was drinking, but he knew it wasn’t doing her any good. He took the glass from her hand and put it down on top of the cabinet. “Take my advice, Mrs. Lin. Lay off the juice and get some sleep.”

She slapped his face with enough power to make him stagger. He hadn’t sensed the blow coming, it was totally spontaneous, unplanned, unavoidable. The side of his face felt numb.

“How dare you?” she said. “I am not a child.”

“No, you’re not.” The numbness faded, replaced by what felt like scalding heat.

“You will not presume to tell me what I can and cannot do.” Her eyes welled with tears. “Only my husband may command me. Only he. No one else.”

He felt enormous pity for her. He’d been right, she had wanted him here, but not for any of the reasons he’d imagined. “I’m sorry if I’ve offended you,” he said. “I’ll see myself out.”

She brushed past him even as he turned away and reached the living room door before him. She slammed it shut and stood there with her back to him, one hand against the door, her shoulders heaving as she sucked in air. He didn’t know if she wanted him to pull her hand away, open the door, and leave. Or whether she wanted him to stay.

Her hands worked at the front of her jacket. They moved down, lower, lower still. She gave a little shrug and the black silk slid off her shoulders revealing creamy flesh beneath, and a pattern of three tiny birthmarks over her left shoulder blade. She kept her arms in the sleeves so the jacket hung from her waist. If she wanted to, she could pull it up again and cover herself. If she wanted to, she could turn round and show him her breasts.

He wasn’t surprised at his reaction. His cock tried to rip its way out of his pants to get to her. But what did she want? His hands on her? Or was she about to lose it and cry rape?

He’d played things cautiously all his life and gotten nowhere. He crossed to her in two long strides and pulled her round to face him. Her eyes were huge, filled with surprise and want. He pulled her against him, covered her lips with his. His hands caressed her naked back, loving the cool touch of her skin. She moaned into his mouth as he moved his fingertips in small circles. He drew swirling patterns up and down her spine and she arched her back. She stuck her stiff tongue into his mouth. He thanked God he’d chewed a fresh mint on the way over here because her tongue tried to follow it down his throat. He became aware that the jacket was gone, probably lying at their feet. Her hands fumbled at her waist, brushing against his pants. She gasped and became motionless. He opened his eyes, found himself staring into hers. Her fingers clamped themselves around his rigid prick, feeling him through the wool-cotton material, seeking the outline of him behind his zipper. She squeezed him so tightly that he instinctively jerked his hips back and stepped away, afraid he’d come. He saw now that she’d loosened the drawstring holding her pants up. The black silk slid down around her ankles. Underneath she wore nothing. Her waist was tiny. Her hips divine. Her legs shapely with defined muscle. His gaze fixed upon the shiny black triangle that marked the entrance to her sex. Even from here he could smell her desire. Her gaze in turn was locked to his crotch. She covered her mouth with both hands. He’d never felt so hard before. He hoped his pants made his prick look bigger. Judging from her shocked expression, it did.

Before she had a chance to change her mind — if such a possibility existed — he wrapped his arms around her and physically carried her to the couch. She weighed almost nothing. He laid her naked, trembling body down on the soft leather and stood over her, unbuckling his pants while she watched. He maneuvered his zipper around his pulsing totem pole, careful not to rip his foreskin off, which would be an inauspicious start to their lovemaking — a thought that almost had him giggling like a nervous schoolboy about to make it to third base with the school bike. He put his kidney holster, badge, cuffs and phones on the floor and pushed them away with his foot. He slid his pants and his shorts down his legs. He slipped off a shoe, intending to step out of his pants and join her on the couch.

Before he could, she sat bolt upright, grabbed hold of his buttocks, pulled his hips forward and fastened her lips over his cock head. Not that he didn’t want her to but he had other plans-