GhostWalkers 10 - Samurai Game

it fall around her face. She looked all woman, yet she walked without a whisper of movement, placing her feet automatically and lightly on the floor. He could tell it was a reflex with her to test her footing and memorize floor plans. He would bet his life that she could describe in detail everything in his house and exactly where it was placed. How many men had a woman like that?
    She turned to look at him over her shoulder, a small smile on her face. “No one but you wants a woman like me, Sam. Most men don’t like that a woman is dangerous.”
    “You’d be surprised,” he countered, “although let’s not try finding out.”
    Her eyes laughed at him for that possessive streak he hadn’t known he’d had until Azami had come along. He found himself laughing with her.
    His bedroom was spacious. He liked room—lots of room. And he enjoyed being surrounded by nature. He knew it wasn’t the best idea to have trees close to his house; they could always come down in a storm—or worse, an enemy could use them both for cover to creep up onto his house, or to gain the roof via one of the branches. He didn’t care. He loved fresh air and detested the city. He wanted as much forest around and as close to him as possible. A bank of windows overlooked the stream and surrounding trees, with a verandah just outside where he could sit and watch the deer come in close to drink.
    Only three candles spilled light around the room. One was much smaller than the other, and a small pot sat over it, warming whatever was inside. Azami lowered the pot so that the flame was close to the bottom and could heat the contents faster. She waved him to a mat on the floor, tugging on his towel. He obligingly handed it over to her and, following her silent direction, lay facedown on the mat.
    She slipped out of her towel, folding both neatly and setting them aside before going to the obviously old pot and lifting it away from the candle. He inhaled her exotic fragrance as she straddled him, her warm body sending heat rushing through his veins. He closed his eyes and prayed for strength to endure—to allow her to finish whatever she felt needed to be done before he claimed her wholly for his own.
    “This is very ancient and sacred oil,” Azami explained as she lifted the lid on the old pot. The scent drifted to him, surrounded him, and seemed to enfold him, all before she ever laid her slick, oiled hands on his shoulders and began a slow, methodical massage. “Each generation has added to the formula. The oil is hand pressed and will absorb quickly into your body, invigorating you even as it soothes tired muscles.”
    Already he could feel the tingling heat invading and spreading like a wildfire even as, for the second time that night, he felt absolutely boneless. He drifted in a haze of love and lust, of complete contentment. Her hands moved down his back to his buttocks, kneading and working out every kink, but the ritual gave them much more than relief from sore muscles. The more she worked on his body with her small, sure hands, the stronger the connection between them grew, as if that ancient oil created a bond that cemented them together. She massaged all the way down his legs and each foot, with that same easy, slow pace.
    “You must turn over, Sammy,” she whispered.
    He opened his eyes as he rolled over. She had placed both feet flat on the floor on either side of his hips and lifted herself just enough to allow him to turn over. Immediately she lowered her body over his, straddling his lap, her hot, damp center sliding intimately over his heavy erection. Her hands immediately went to his shoulders.
    Sam held up his hands. He was aching to touch her and this wasn’t going much further, not without him taking her. “Share, Azami.”
    She smiled at him and swiveled slightly, causing a wealth of sensations to course through his groin. The candlelight played over her skin, the swell of her breast and narrow rib cage. The spider moved, showing itself briefly before she turned again to give him a full frontal view. She held the pot of oil in her cupped hands as if it was precious to her. Her gaze locked with his, she offered him the oil.
    Sam coated his hands in the warm, slick oil and waited until she placed the pot carefully on the floor just within reach. When she would have bent forward to resume massaging his chest, he shook his head and lifted his hands to her shoulders. She sat back a little, watching him from under those