Burning Tigress by Jade Lee Page A

a testament to her mother's prudish vehemence that Charlotte had not come to his door long ago.
    She stepped forward, her expression earnest. "We will not be interrupted."
    She was right, and so he sighed as he gestured to the bed. "Very well. Please arrange yourself."
    She blinked at him, but did not move from where she knelt on his mat. "Arrange myself? How?"
    He looked at her, working his thoughts into the appropriate frame. It wasn't hard; Miss Charlotte was indeed a beautiful woman. Her dress lifted her breasts to just the right height for his hands. Her waist, of course, was impossibly small, due to the strange whalebone contraption all white women wore; and her skirt shifted and flickered about her folded legs like tempting yin flames, drawing the mind to the secrets concealed within.
    "You will have to remove your corset. It restricts your breathing."
    She flushed, color bursting across her features, but she did not comment. Nor did she move.
    He felt his hands clench and realized he was impossibly weary with these white women's games. At least at the Tigress school there was no confusion as to what one was about. No discussion, no illusions; it was simple practice. Except, of course, when it wasn't simply practice. But thoughts of Little Pearl soured his stomach, so he forced his attention back to Charlotte: beautiful Miss Charlotte, the flaming sun in the sky, the whore at his feet.
    Whore? The name would not reconcile, and so he grabbed her, startled by his own sudden anger. He took hold of her arms and quickly lifted her up to her feet. She was not a small woman, but he was strong and she was too startled to resist. So he set her on her feet and glared at her. His voice was harsh, his manner cold. And yet his body shook from the heat she generated in his hands where they touched.
    "Are you a virgin or a slut?" He spoke in English, making sure that there was no misunderstanding.
    She tilted her head, seeming not in the least bit shocked. "Can I not be both?"
    He frowned, wondering if he had chosen the wrong words. "How can one be both? Was the Virgin Mary a slut? Was the Whore of Babylon virtuous?"
    She didn't answer. Instead, she slowly folded her arms, using the motion to dislodge his hands. She stared at him as she often stared at young William: with a mixture of bafflement and superiority. Finally, she said, "You agreed to teach me, Ken Jin. It won't take my—my maidenhead, will it?"
    He shook his head. "Your virginity will remain intact." But her purity would not. Her sweet nature would not. Her very angelic image would fade away like so much dirty smoke. He ought to throw her out, but already his dragon was pushing forward in interest. This was the most virile he'd felt in a very long time. How could he stop?
    "Teach me," she insisted.
    Pressure built in his chest, an impossible pain that cut off his breath. What did he care what she chose to do with her white-woman virtue? What difference did it make to him if Miss Charlotte Wicks chose to follow her father's example rather than her mother's? Both paths were wrong for her—rampant debauchery or ascetic withering—and yet with no suitor in sight, she had no other choice.
    Therefore, he would service her, release some of her stopped-up yin, and not think beyond that. He mentally stopped the pain that clogged his throat and pushed his worries away. It was as simple as slicing off an arm, but he accomplished it even as he took one step backward.
    "Very well. Remove your clothing and lie upon the bed." His voice was not quite normal; it was higher in tone, though otherwise calm and detached. She, obviously, did not notice any difference, because she tilted her head and frowned.
    "Why should I need to do that? Is it not you who must remove..." She waved at his lower parts.
    He straightened, surprised. Most white women preferred him to remain clothed while he harvested their yin. He was, after all, simply a servant performing an unusual task, and servants