Gena Showalter: The Pleasure Slave

Step by agonizing step, she approached the wildly savage apparition. He wore a let's-get-this-over-with expression… and not much else. Those pants. That sword. Slowly, shakily, she reached out and poked his chest once, twice. The heat of his skin singed her both times, and she finally jerked back, jaw slack.

This wasn't her imagination. This wasn't a dream.

What kind of man could appear and vanish in less than a single breath? Man… was he even human? Could he be a genie? Yesterday he had vowed to fulfill her every wish and desire. No, she thought. That wasn't possible. Genies were a myth. But what if genies did, in fact, exist ? The thought continued to tease her mind, battering against her beliefs. Didn't her sister, a highly respected archaeologist, often say there was a bit of truth to every tale? There was only one way to find out. "Leave," she whispered to him. "Leave right now." His scowling countenance disappeared in a cloud of smoke. Three minutes passed, then four. The only sound was the ticking of the clock, and each tap pounded in her ears like a war drum. When she felt enough time had elapsed, she sucked in a deep breath, reached out and jabbed the button again. Just like before, the lights flickered. Purple mist erupted. Mr. Half-Naked's clean, unique fragrance invaded her nostrils.

Then, suddenly, he was frowning down at her, his swirling violet eyes alight with irritation. "What is it you wish now, little dragon? This coming-and-going nonsense must cease." A genie, she thought, awed. She couldn't deny his existence and wasn't even sure why she'd wanted to. He was an exquisite specimen of manhood. So exquisite, in fact, she wouldn't be surprised if he had grade A one-hundred-percent pure beef stamped on his butt.

Gathering her courage, she spoke. "Welcome to my home, genie."

His brows knit together in confusion, and for the moment, he didn't appear quite so menacing. "I am a man. A warrior."

She paused. "But you have magic powers."

"Only in the art of seduction."

"So you don't grant wishes?"

"Nay. I do not."

"Oh." Her shoulders sagged in disappointment. "What exactly do you do?"

"This I have told you once before. I entertain, converse and protect. But most importantly, I supply the female body—your body—with untold bliss."

He could have been filing his fingernails for all the excitement in his voice. Still, the man flat out admitted he wanted to… wanted to… Her tongue began to feel heavy, preventing speech. This man, this nongenie, wasn't hitting on her, she reminded herself. He wasn't asking her out on a date. More than likely, such a dangerously handsome male found her unattractive. Repulsive, even. That thought eased her discomfort, making her tongue feel normal again, but a hollow ache sparked to life in her chest.

She studied him. He looked capable of anything, anything at all, and she found herself wondering what his limitations were. "So you're saying that if I want you to clean my toilets, you will?"

"Toilets?"

"Lavatory. Chamber pot. Powder room."

"Aye, I have cleaned many of those."

She wanted to laugh at his disgruntled expression, but the sword strapped to his waist kept her quiet. Surely he didn't have to obey her every whim. "What if I want you to crawl on your hands and knees to polish my floor? Or what if I want you to dust every single one of my antiques with your tongue? Or… eat a mud pie because I spent an hour baking it?"

"Would those things bring you enjoyment," he said, a feral glint entering his mystical eyes, "they would be mine to do."

His words surprised her and should have made her happy, but suddenly Julia was overwhelmed with pity for him, to always be reliant on someone else's pleasure. Other men probably dreamed of being caught in just such a circumstance. A sexual object. Not this man. He was tense and edgy, and self-loathing radiated from the hard stance of his body.

Silence permeated the room for a long while.

Julia didn't know what to say, didn't know what to tell him that could make the situation more bearable for him. She felt a bombardment of guilt for even suggesting he do those awful things for her. Well, no more. Really, what did she need a slave for? Nothing, that's what. She enjoyed cleaning her home, cooking her own meals—not mud pies—and she didn't like others handling her antiques, unless they planned to buy them.

She would not treat this man as a slave. He was a human being and deserved more. She'd treat him like the big brother she'd always wanted.

Just admit it, Julia. You simply don't have the courage to take him up on what he's really offering.

She gulped. "What's your name?"

"Most call me Pleasure Slave, or simply Slave."

Pleasure Slave ? "I'm not calling you that." The name was too erotic, too sexual. "Do you have a name that I doesn't have anything to do with the bedroom? Like John or Phil."

A pause, then, "Tristan."

"Tristan," she repeated, liking the sound. It suited him, being both sensual and unique. "That's what I'll call you."

"If that is your desire." He gave her a slow, leisurely smile that held a hint of genuine appreciation. Her heart rate kicked into overtime, the impact of that take-no-prisoners grin leaving her reeling. Good Lord, the man belonged on the cover of GQ .

Julia glanced at his sword. Okay, scratch GQ . He belonged on the front page of Hunky Barbarians .

"I will hear your name, little dragon." Annoyance replaced her admiration and launched her quickly to her feet.

"You can stop referring to me as a tiny fire-breathing lizard. I'm not that unattractive. And for your information, I'm not little. I'm normal. You just happen to be excessively tall." His lips twitched, and his eyes went from lavender to the purest blue.

"So I say again—I will hear your name."

"Call me Julia," she replied grudgingly. "Or Jules, if you must."

"I shall keep that in mind." He clasped his hands behind his back. "I am now ready to hear what you desire of me."

"I want nothing from you," she hastened to assure him. "Absolutely nothing."

Features tightening, he said, "Why did you summon me on three separate occasions if you wished not to make use of me?"

She shrugged. "The first time I thought you were an intruder."

"Ah." Like the flip of a switch, he lost his dark glower and his lips once again twitched with amusement.

"And you thought to defend yourself from an Imperian warrior with this karate of yours?"

Bristling at his superior tone, she locked her fists on her hips and glared. "My hands are deadly weapons, you know. You would die if I karate-chopped your neck."

"I believe you," he said. "I am quite sure I would die of laughter." Even as her heart accelerated at the sheer masculine beauty he represented, Julia fought a surge of anger.

The man had a lot of nerve! First he scared the crap out of her. Then he called her a tiny dragon—did she really look like a lizard? Now he had the gall to insult her self-defense skills.

I would die of laughter , she silently mimicked. A hidden part of her wanted to slap Tristan upside the head with a jackhammer. Since physical violence was against the law—and she didn't relish being locked inside a cell with a woman named Big Bertha— Julia opened her mouth to offer him a stinging retort. His next question stopped her, however.

"Where is your husband?" He uttered a low, rumbling chuckle that purred and soothed and probably sent women to their knees. "You did not kill him with karate, did you?"

Uh-oh. Caught. Julia's animosity toward Tristan drained as her sin surfaced. A piece of lint on the hem of her white tank top suddenly became fascinating. "Did you kill him?" All traces of humor vanished from Tristan's voice. "By Elliea, you did! Where did you place the body?"