The bathroom was empty when Sato arrived. As always, he paused to admire the raw granite walls. Steam-loving ferns grew from hollows in the stones. The window, which overlooked the back garden, followed the irregular shape of the rocks that surrounded it. The floor was tiled in roughly dressed limestone and the huge hot tub, set flush into the tiles, was rimmed in polished cedar. Sato activated the jets so the water would heat, then soaped and rinsed himself under the separate tap.

He did not linger over the weighty flesh between his legs.

Clean and wet, he stepped into the tub with a sigh. The water was far from scalding, but it eased his tensions just the same. He rested his head on the rim, letting his feet float upward through the bubbling currents.

For now, his arousal was a pleasant state, undemanding, almost lulling. A man should be grateful, Sato thought, for a body that lived as fully as his. How many, after all, could say they enjoyed men and woman equally? Life could be a banquet for one such as he. If his life was not a banquet at the moment, that was his choice.

Someone entered the room just as he was drifting into a pleasant dream. He opened his eyes. His belly clenched. The woman stood in the doorway. Her navy blue yukata matched his own. Auntie must have left her the robe. Auntie must have told her where to bathe.
She did not seem at all put off by his presence. Her smile was creamy. "Well, well, look who's here."

"I will leave," he said, water sheeting off him as he rose.

"Don't be silly." She stroked the front of her neck, a languid motion that drew his attention to its length. Did she know that, to his people, necks were as alluring as breasts? "Japanese bathe together all the time, don't they? So there's nothing to be embarrassed about."

Sato sank back under the water. "David rarely uses this bath."

Her smile deepened. Thickly lashed, her eyes were sleepy amber slits. Already the steam was flushing her cheeks. She looked like a woman who had just been fucked . . . or who wanted to be. "Who says I want to bathe with David?"

The implication was, of course, that she wanted to bathe with him. Sato knew better. This sort of woman was a vulture for male attention, any male attention. The more the male resisted, the more she wished to conquer him. Her flirtation was not personal. It had nothing to do with him.

"Do as you please," he said, and closed his eyes.

Her robe rustled as she removed it and hung it on a peg near the door. "I wash before I get in, don't I?"

He was sure she knew the answer.

"Yes," he grunted.

"Don't peek," she said, archly mocking.

Irritated to the point of perversity, he opened his eyes. She sat on the little wooden stool, soaping herself in three-quarter profile. Her body was everything a woman's should be: strong, curved, graceful. In that position, she even looked demure. And small. He doubted she stood an inch over 5'2". Her creamy, olive skin brought his tongue to dry lips. Her breasts made him fist his hands. Here was the lure of the gaijin. Her breasts were those of an old-fashioned pin-up girl. Marilyn Monroe. Betty Grable. An irresistible combination of innocence and sex. Her nipples were cinnamon pink.

Her eyes slid shut as she soaped between her legs. She had shaved her pubic hair to a thin, mink-black strip. Her labia curved together like the mouth of a conch shell, pink and ivory gloss. Her clit was hidden in the lather.

He jerked his gaze away as soon as he realized he was looking for the tiny jewel. He was too late. The insistent throb of his cock told him the damage had been done. Her fingers delved deeper.

"Mm," she said, a throaty hum. "That feels nice."

He frowned. "You cannot lure me with such cheap, childish games."

She opened her eyes and smiled. "Can't I?"

Her approach was so obvious it should not have affected him. It did, though. It did. His breath came faster as she rinsed and stepped into the tub, Venus returning to the sea. A silver ring twinkled at her navel, then disappeared beneath the froth. She sat across from him. Water covered her to her neck. She wriggled. Her feet bumped his at the center of the tub.
He would not demean himself by pulling back. The sad truth was, however, that he did not wish to pull back. The brush of her toes sent a thrill of pleasure through his body. Chills swept across his shoulders, raising goosebumps despite the heat.

"Cold?" she suggested in a hushed, brandied tone.

He did not answer. She could seduce a buddha with that voice, and never mind the rest of her.

With a convincing yawn, she stretched her arms and folded them behind her head. The upper slope of her breasts emerged from the water, flushed and shining. Her toenails rasped the arch of his foot. He shivered again, his organ as hard as the granite wall behind him.

"So, Sato," she said. "Are you a karate master? Judo? Aikido?"

"Sumo," he said, the word still Japanese in his mouth.

Her head tilted towards her shoulder, her expression curious. Most people were surprised to hear he'd studied sumo. They expected sumitori to be as big as elephants.

"Are there different weight classes?"

He did not wish to converse with her, but the habits of politeness were hard to throw off. He shook his head. "It takes many years to grow as big as the yokozuna, the grand champions. The smaller wrestlers are quicker and more agile. That is how they defeat larger opponents."

"I see."

This time her smile was pleasant, intrigued. He felt obliged to disabuse her of the notion that he had been successful at the sport.

"I did not win many matches," he said.

She pursed her lips. Apparently, when she chose, her face could be very expressive.
"In that case, I presume you supplemented your skills before signing on as David's bodyguard?"

"I am an expert marksman and fully trained in the latest security technology."

"Good." Her eyes sparkled with mischief. "I feel much safer."

His mouth jerked before he caught it. She had almost made him smile. No wonder David found her so appealing. The woman was a chameleon. Now she clucked at him.

"Goodness, such a frown! With such a frown you could frighten little children."

Too bad he could not frighten her. Before he could gather his wits, she tried another ploy.

"Oh, Sato," she complained, rolling her head and rubbing the back of her neck. "My muscles are so tight. Do you think you could massage the kinks out?"

"No," he growled.

She laughed, not at all embarrassed. "I thought the Japanese would do anything for a guest. I thought it was a point of honor."

"Know all about us, do you?"

She simpered with a skill that made the skin of his disobedient organ sting with pressure. "I'm reasonably well read."

"Hah, I'll bet you saw Shogun on TV."

His words could not scratch her self-confidence. She tossed her hair. "As a matter of fact, I did." Suddenly she was rising, moving towards him through the churning water. "Is that what you like, Sato? A demure, servile woman who puts her nose to the floor when you enter a room?"

She stepped between his legs. He hadn't been aware he'd spread them until she did. Her knees brushed his inner thighs. Her hands slid up his wet, hairless chest, then swirled around the shell of his ears. At once, the steam grew thicker. He could barely catch his breath.

"No," she murmured. "I don't think that's what you want. I think your fantasy is to be taken by a lusty, busty American whore."

He gasped for air as her hands slid back under the water. He couldn't seem to make himself pull away. He felt like a bunraku puppet. She was pulling strings he hadn't known he had. Her nipples were pouted and rosy. As he watched, their centers crinkled and stood out. She wanted him. She was not like those other American woman who thought he was too fat or too foreign or who only slept with him because he carried a gun and was dangerous. She wanted him and, oh, she was exquisite. Surely there had never been another woman so sensual.

Or did he believe this because she did?

She drew closer, strafing his body with hers. She was swan-light, swan-lovely. Their lips brushed. A growl echoed in his belly. His arm rose. The cup of his palm cradled her delicate head. Her hair was silk, half wet, half dry. He kissed her. Their tongues met and stroked. Ah, she tasted of sake. Auntie must have taken a tray to her room. She kissed him back, hungry, skilled. She was an artist of feint and retreat, attack and parry. The kiss made his vision blur as if some huge rikishi had tossed him from the dohyo on his head.

And then her hands gathered together on his cock. They stroked up his shaft and caught the thick, wrinkled foreskin. Cleverly, swiftly, she moved it back and forth over his glans, massaging him with his own skin. Tiny stabs of feeling shot through the sensitive flesh. Her hands were sweeter than his. Surprisingly strong, incredibly deft, they wrung feelings from his rigid stalk he had not known existed. The pleasure was almost painful. His balls tightened. Though he doubted he'd be able to come quickly, given his preparations, the sensations were as intense as if he hovered on the verge.

"No," he moaned, some portion of his brain recalling the danger. "My master desires you. You are not for me."

"Your master!" Her laugh was sharp and hoarse. "Believe me, mister, I am your master now."

Without warning, she plunged beneath the swirling water. Her mouth nuzzled his balls, then caught and held his shaft. He cursed to his Shinto gods. His hands gripped her slender shoulders like pincers.

But he could not bring himself to push her away.

The woman must have sold her soul to a devil. In Japan, sumitori were akin to movie stars. Even bad sumitori had their followers. Many women had done this for him, but never had it felt like this. Hot flowers of ecstasy bloomed through his body, almost numbing in their power. She played his organ with her tongue, her lips, even the edge of her teeth. Again, she manipulated his foreskin over the bursting head. His groans echoed off the ceiling as she alternated between sucking him so strongly he thought she'd pull him free, and so delicately he had to strain for every sensation. She fluttered the tip of her tongue over his tiny slit. His toes curled so hard their joints popped.

A minute passed, and still she did not rise. Her hair floated around his hips like a mermaid's tresses, waving with her movements. Her breasts bobbed between his thighs. She drew him to the verge of her throat and suckled in rhythm with his heart. His bones began to melt, to sag. Clearly, she had the lung capacity of a pearl diver. Part of him feared for her safety, but the rest thrilled to the effort she was making. What beautiful woman ever thought she had to work so hard? Not to mention the symbolic danger she was in. She was vulnerable to him. At any moment he might push her down and hold her under. Would she struggle if he tried? Would she bite him to win free? Confused images - violent, erotic, helpless - stuttered through his mind. He saw her and him and David. Taking her in front of him. Making him watch. Each thrust a blow to heart and body. The images heightened his senses until every muscle was taut with conflicting urges. He wanted it to go on forever. He could not bear another second.

Finally, she burst free, moaning for her first breath. When she'd caught her next, he gripped the sides of her face and kissed her, hard and quick. Their tongues lashed together, then away.

"Finish it," he ordered, pressing her shoulders down.

She smiled, baring white, even teeth.

"My pleasure," she said, her voice as fierce as his.

She sank beneath the water. The end was close. Already, the pressure of impending climax throbbed in his shaft. The ache was so intense it almost felt like an orgasm. She sucked steadily now, hands cupping and squeezing his scrotum. Her fingers seemed to push his seed closer to egress, seemed to gather and compress it. Her tongue was slicker than the surrounding water, her mouth hotter. He held his breath, trying to hold the unbearable anticipation a moment longer, a second, and then his climax burst beyond any control he could exert. Sensation streaked through his belly and groin. His vision darkened. His seed pulsed free. He heard a cry, the cry of a fallen warrior, slain by shuddering waves of pleasure.

His cry ended on a sigh. He went limp. Her mouth pulled free. Slowly, gracefully, she stood. Her breasts rose and fell with deepened breaths, their nipples shivering and sharp. He stared at them, wanting her all over again.

She seemed to know her victory required no words. She backed away, smiling her sleepy, mocking smile, smoothing her long wet hair around her narrow skull. She turned. Her progress up the steps was slow and swaying, almost ceremonial. Through bleary eyes he admired her heart-shaped bottom. Two deep dimples marked the top of her cleft, the left slightly higher than the right. She embodied the Buddhist principles of beauty. Asymmetry. Simplicity. Austere sublimity. A netsuke master could not have carved her more enticingly.

"This will not happen again," he said, with all the sternness he could muster.

She dropped her head in ironic acknowledgment, her amusement unshaken.

He had a feeling she did not believe him.

COPYRIGHT 1999 BY EMMA HOLLY. IT IS ILLEGAL TO REPRODUCE OR
DISTRIBUTE THIS WORK IN ANY MANNER OR MEDIUM
WITHOUT WRITTEN PERMISSION OF THE AUTHOR.