Then Spaen set the cups aside. His expression turned serious. Peony saw the hunger in his eyes, and her fear returned. She fumbled at the knot in her sash. Maybe once they got the sex over with, they could drink and laugh again.

“Nee!”

Spaen’s vehement negative stopped her. Puzzled, she watched as he walked to the chest and took out three ropes. Then he shed his coat and shoes, his shirt, trousers, stockings, and undergarments. Seeing his hairy, muscular body, Peony shuddered. She turned away from the sight of the bull-like genitals that hung from a tangle of wiry gold pubic hair. Hugging herself, she waited for the inevitable attack. But Spaen’s voice was gentle.

“Kom hier.”

She glanced at him, curious now. Her mouth dropped.

He sat on his seat, binding his ankles to its legs. Then he spoke, motioning for her to tie his hands behind his back. Peony stood paralyzed with shock. She’d heard other courtesans whisper about such disgusting sex games. How unfortunate that the barbarians also knew them! Only the thought of Minami’s anger enabled her to take up the rope.

When she tightened it around his wrists, Spaen groaned, a deep, wounded-animal sound. Quickly she let go and jumped back. “I’m sorry I hurt you, master!” she cried.

But he twisted in his seat, face dark with passion, and shouted for her to continue. Sweat beaded his skin; the rank smell grew stronger. Peony saw his organ swell upright. And strangely, she felt an answering response within her own body. Her heartbeat and breathing quickened the way they did when she stole. An unfamiliar warmth pulsed in her groin, tingled her nipples. She realized she wanted the barbarian as much as he did her, and in the same way. When he shouted more orders, she knew instinctively what to do.

She slapped his face, hard. He moaned, his eyes feverish with pain and lust. She punched his chest, and he writhed, his organ fully erect. As she struck him again and again, her moans joined his. She tore off her clothes and straddled Spaen, impaling herself on his erection. The heat and smell of his sweat-drenched skin fed her desire, as did the sight of his contorted face and straining muscles. She raised and lowered herself, nearly mad with pleasure.

He climaxed almost immediately, in a series of hoarse shouts and violent convulsions. She rode him until her own pleasure crested. She felt powerful, triumphant. This mastery of a wild barbarian was even better than stealing.