Slavemaster's Woman, The by Angelia Whiting Read Free Book Online Page B

and floated through the air in slow motion as her brain
quickly searched for a mode of escape.
    The liquid splashed him ruthlessly in the
face. He blinked, his soft expression turning clearly to shock, and
they both jumped apart immediately.
    Her hand automatically moved to her slave
band, waiting for it to activate. A horrendous dread seized her.
She’d just stepped way over the line and was suddenly very worried
about this slavemaster she knew so little about. He was large. He
could snap her like a twig. What if he punished her by doing
strange sexual things that would have her in torment for
dawnings?
    Oh mystic stars! He works for the cruel and
vicious King Mecor. Of course he would be equally vile!
    What had she been thinking, taunting him
like that? Cushla knew she had to get away. Frantically, she
searched his body for a convenient place to bite him, but he was
fully clothed and there was nothing exposed but his neck and hands
and a small area of his beautiful chest.
    Go for his throat! If he activated
the headband she would rip out his artery when he jaw locked.
    The thought disgusted her. Cushla dropped
her glass to the floor and it shattered, the splintering sound
resonating throughout the room. He was going to kill her! Without
thinking she flew at the slavemaster, catching him off guard. She
grabbed his shoulders for leverage and sank her teeth into the skin
on his neck. Something strange came through the haze of anger and
fear settling into the crevice of her brain. The scent of his skin
assaulted her—not cologne. It was his natural scent, teasing her
olfactory senses and he tasted rather good. A pleasurable thrill
ran up her spine.
    What?!
    What a stupid time for her libido to
reappear! The wine was surely drugged. Tarken must be
immune… Tarken… The name rolled through her mind as if it was
always meant to be there.
    She bit down even harder.
    * * * *
    “Hells bedamned, women!” Tarken gasped out.
He’d been taken completely by surprise. Her teeth were on his
throat and her body was wrapped around him like a frenzied wild
feline intent on mauling its prey.
    Tarken turned rapidly in an attempt to shake
her off. And then he stumbled backwards, slamming hard against the
chamber’s wall. It shook with the impact. He grabbed at Cushla’s
hair, attempting to pull her mouth from his neck, and felt her
chomp down harder. His shirt ripped.
    She slipped slightly, and that gave Tarken
the fortuity to close his hand around one of her arms. He wretched
it behind her back, knowing he would hurt her. He was not pleased
by it, but if he did not remove her teeth from his throat, she
would be eating his windpipe for supper.
    Unbelievably, she seemed able to bear the
pressure, and Tarken quickly realized he was getting a heavy dose
of her high tolerance for pain. He applied more pressure, and still
nothing happened, so he reached with his free hand and plugged her
nose.
    Pain and lack of air—Cushla gasped for a
breath and then let go. She expelled a high-pitched scream. “I hate
you!” she wailed while throwing her head back. Her grasp on him
weakened.
    Tarken pried Cushla from his body and
dropped her to the floor, forcing an oomph from her lungs as
she landed. He leapt, but her feet came to his abdomen to stop him
from crashing on top of her. The impact along with the weight of
his body however, forced her legs to buckle. Conscious he might
break her thighs, Tarken fell to one side, the movement giving
Cushla ample room to twist away from him.
    But not far enough.
    In one swoop, Tarken hooked his arm around
her mid-section, easily dragging her toward him.
    Cushla shrieked. Her legs flailed as she
attempted to pry his grip with her hands.
    “Calm yourself, Cushla!” He demanded, but of
course she failed to listen.
    Rolling, Tarken pulled her so she was
face-up and on top of him. His intention was to wrap his legs
around hers to bring the wild kicking to heel, but she bucked
again.
    Using her weight, as little of