Dragon Ball/Z/GT Fan Fiction ❯ How to Make Love to a Saiyan ❯ Epiphany ( Chapter 1 )

Disclaimer: DBZ is the property of the incredible Akira Toriyama. Thank you for Vegeta.

 

AN: This chapter has been revamped, both the prologue and the part titled “chapter one”. It took me over a year after original publication to do so, but it was done to fit the rest of the story better. The previous version was the only remnant of a discarded draft of this story. I sincerely want to thank the people who gave this story a chance even with the old extremely poetic version of this chapter. Thanks for having the will to try something new, to not just read the first half of a chapter and leave a flame. I'll never forget that.

 

There's something else I truly want to say. Vegeta calling Bulma “slave” is not fanon. It's canon. I'm basing this directly on the original subtitled version of the anime, episode 124, where he refers to her as a “bothersome human slave.” Please do bear that in mind. I have a perfect foundation and a perfect right to use this in my fic and I fiercely adhere to that. The story doesn't revolve around that premise per se, but you'll find glimmers of it around.

 

Warning: This story contains heavy swearing and adult situations and this chapter is extremely heavy with that. Don't carry on, honestly, if you're easily offended. There is plenty of light reading on the web to satisfy everyone's needs. I can't write about an intensely sexy and evil prince any other way. Finally, only the prologue to this story is written in first person. The rest unfolds in the traditional 3rd person with the exception a part that's written from Vegeta's POV on chapter two.

 

 

 

 

How to Make Love to a Saiyan

 

 

Prologue

 

Step 1: Acknowledgement

 

 

 

Bulma's POV

 

 

I'm crushed. And the name of the man is Vegeta.

 

You've got to remember what it's like to experience that first blush of passion. There must have been a time in your life when you wrestled in its grasp, when you suffered that spine tingling need for one single man. Anyone claiming immunity to the flesh and its primitive call is a blatant hypocrite. Its grab is possessive, a wildfire that spreads through your very soul, igniting you like a blazing supernova. I used to think it was a feeling reserved to high school but I was perfectly wrong.

 

I truly like him. I want him in a way I shouldn't, in a way no woman should want a man. I acknowledge that aching truth with courage and raise my chin to the consequences. I can feel myself perched on the verge of a bottomless pit and that pit is the black of his predatory eyes. Chills break throughout my frame, cruel and savaging every time I look into them. I'm the perfect prey to his dark allure.

 

I've been a mindless wreck for months now, writhing in the claws of obsession. The ladylike composure I've worked so hard through the years to accomplish has already begun to splinter. More than once my foot has wavered on a step, sending me gripping at the railing to avoid a fall. This morning I poured black coffee over cereal before catching myself distraught. And that's only the tip of the iceberg. The terrible effects are countless and are turning me into a clumsy idiot. It's been a while since I've felt this way. I've rooted around the corners of my mind, unearthing memories but there's nothing like it.

 

People claim life becomes a Technicolor diorama once you're hit by Cupid, that the world becomes alive with the colors of spring. The sun is supposed to glow more fervently, shedding its rays in smooth caresses over the world before you, but that's the stuff of children's stories.

 

Fairytales are a sham. Real passion doesn't involve the token woodland creatures that break into song. The substitute for chirping birds and gentle does are perfectly normal cats that spit furr-balls and chase mice around the atrium. No fairy godmother comes forth to wrap you up in gossamer and thrust you in the arms of the wholesome prince, who by the way seems more than ready to also shower you with songs.

 

Women in those stories catch their man's attention with as little as a bat of their eyelashes. They never grapple with the heat of their burning loins nor do they suffer the whiplash of their body's unfulfilled desires. Prince charming waits for them thrown over a bed of roses, scaring the hell out of their virginal selves with the thick hard proof of his carnal intentions. Seeing the women are untouched, they chase them around the bed in their wedding night, abandoning their heart-felt croons for much lustier endeavors. Those perfectly demure maidens have the meal served. All they need to do is eat it. I on the other hand, have none of his attention and it's maddening.

 

I lean my cheek on the cold metal door of his gravity capsule, wondering why I differ so much from the perfectly chaste images depicted on those books. No wonder I dropped them for science journals at the tender age of six, much to my mother's chagrin. The icy sheet of chrome sears my flesh as I lick my lips with deliberate slowness. I've never wanted anything more in my life. He's the broken prince of my dreams, a black knight in dilapidated armor that walks the smoldering coals of an inner hell. His skin isn't pristine perfect like that of patented princes. It's marred with multiple white scars that line over his back, the gruesome evidence of horror stories I'm dying to hear.

 

He spends his days buried in self-martyrdom, making incandescent love to the floor of the gravity capsule in the form of pushups. His every movement is unfailingly controlled, his entire body wooden hard as his hips lever up and down hypnotically. Sweat beads in his temple, trailing lazily down the curve of his face until it reaches his strong jaw. I slide a digit with equal languor down the surface of the door, longing for the briefest touch. He flips over with the grace of a seasoned warrior, folding arms behind his long black hair that's now tussled and damp. He then touches his elbows to his knees repeatedly, not a gram of fat in his sculpted body. I can see his lungs expand from the porthole, skin wrapping his muscles tightly like golden toffee over bulging steel. My fingers leave damp imprints over the exterior, an uncontrollable need careening through my body. He's everything and more I ever wanted in a man, raw power and sharpened reason, driven and strong in ways unheard of. He's a primal fantasy come true, the perfect object of any woman's desire and the alpha call to my damsel in distress. His sun-kissed figure howls danger while begging to be licked and that, as far as a male goes, is a perfectly lethal combination.

 

Real men awaken the dormant instinct that makes you want to lap up every drop of sweat in the middle of the night. Their gift is the sight of hard calves and strong biceps being tempered in the fires of training. The one song I'm willing to hear is the sound of his name whispered amidst gasps of eye-rolling ecstasy.

 

Vegeta.

 

True bliss is the musk of his perspiration as it reaches me. He evokes thoughts of flesh searing flesh in a dance of longing, of calloused hands sliding down my torso.

 

The craving is mouthwatering, the kind that makes you bear your fangs in animalistic fashion before a juicy slab of meat. It's enticing like molten chocolate over velvety ice cream. He's a girl's bane, the type parents warn you about and you still go ahead and fuck.

 

When he enters the room, he's marvelously imposing and powerfully commanding, his badness wafting off him irreverently. Men like that should be illegal. He's a glistening display of beautifully toned flesh pressed hard between skin and bone. And to my own misfortune, he's thoroughly forbidden. He's technically my enemy, a foe whose ire simmers under a wobbly truce. His sinuous gait is that of a deadly animal, a jaguar ready to snap his jaws at the barest touch.

 

But I don't let myself be fooled by his aloofness. When I look into his eyes I can see black fire, a fest of scorching flames that both frighten and excite. My stomach tightens every time he looks at me, every time the icy heat of his pupils brushes the blue of mine. I curl my expensively polished nails in the armrests of my couch, scraping the leather for the second it lasts before he turns away and leaves me cold and barren. His absence is an immeasurable loss and it feels like I'm abandoned, left alone to burn among my thoughts.

 

My female companions choke on their own saliva in the wake of his arrogant stride. He doesn't seem to notice their reaction and even if he did, he wouldn't give a damn. He's perfectly unaware of the sparkling set of studious eyes. Visions of him looking dark and slender, cloaked in king-like grace are the only thing he's willing to share but it's much too little for my ambitious self. Not that mamma or her tea-party friends have any complaints. My life-giver sits in the den amidst delicate cake samples, pleasantly watching him go about his menial business in shorts so tight they're practically indecent.

 

“Oh Bulma, don't you want a bite?” I nearly spilled coffee on my expensive DK blouse the day she twittered that. I almost lashed out in mortified embarrassment, then I noticed the piece of strawberry pie she gleefully held in her dainty hand. There was a devious glint to her eye, one that made me narrow my own gaze before snatching the sugary treat and stuffing my face with its creamy goodness. Oh yes I wanted a bite. I wanted a long tasteful bite but momma's too dangerous a woman under that deceiving smile. I'd never confess the depths of my lust.

 

You'd think I would have made a move by now, and to be frank, I sure have. I'm Bulma Briefs after all, and I'm used to being instantly gratified. The infallible sway of hips and the proverbial flick of hair are powerful weapons in the fields of sexual war but that man's core is fortified. His indifference is exasperating. He doesn't seem to want me. Why doesn't he? Everybody does. I'm a beautiful, smart woman. I know that. Any man on earth would kill to have me in their arms. Crème de la mer has made my skin smoother than porcelain. Privileged genes have given me lips redder than cherries, tart and ripe for the picking. Sonnets have been sung in my name, the color of my eyes compared to the sapphire depths of the oceans far too many times. I'm used to demanding men jump and hearing them answer `how high', but to him I'm a lowly subject, a food purveying wench. I, in his eyes, am nothing but a slave. That's his name for me, drawled out in deep octaves whenever he pleases.

 

Was he the same with every other woman or are his mordant slurs the way to punish me for my sins, for being on the opposing team? His reticence has nothing to do with his virility. It wafts into my nostrils and slides over my tongue like woodsy silk, like a strong brand of well-aged whisky. It lures my inner female in raw notes of musk and spice, a tell-tale sign of hard work and sweat. He's the red-blooded kind that slides into your womb and makes it flutter. Lord knows how many women he's shown that prowess to in the middle of the night. But for me he's nonchalant. The subtle cues that make others salivate like a hungry pack of dogs garner nothing from him but a finely raised eyebrow. I can tell he's good at tormenting women.

 

He stalks through my mansion with a heartless look in his eye, looking at us over his shoulder, like we're little beings in his grander scheme for cosmic domination. Then there's that considerate way of making demands. Don't women just adore it when the object of their fascination lashes out like a viper and orders them around? He lowers long raven lashes and glares at me from the corner of his eye, expecting obeisance. I shouldn't care that he does. I should walk away and give him a perfect view of my ass, but I can't and that fact alone is enough to rile me up.

 

I snarl up at him when he calls me slave girl but there's a flame of exhilaration in my eyes and a gathering of spit in my mouth. His rich dark tone is so guttural it rumbles. It takes me to uncharted places where the one dominant power is lust. That's when I know how dangerous he truly is. He's turned me into my own worst enemy. Me, a wealthy heiress renowned for her looks, popular enough to have modeled for the sleekest fashion magazines, melting under the taunting insults of a chauvinistic prick. If the media knew I've been reduced to a manner of slavery they'd have a field day. They'd tear me limb by limb, then drink Chandon right off my skull. I can see the tabloids and their vicious headings; the richest girl in West City, desperate to ride a murderer.

 

I'm hand-tied, frustrated and aroused, all at the same time. I've turned into a tongue lashing, ball-breaking bitch, far beyond my normal levels of vindictiveness. Any poor bastard over at the Capsule Corporation's headquarters or the science lab unlucky enough to cross my path can more than testify to that.

 

I shouldn't be so upset. Really, I shouldn't. I'm surrounded by perfectly good men, well-born lads with Ivy League titles and a penchant for tennis at the country club. They've paraded through my lavish office in expensive suits and heavy colognes since my ex and I parted, going after my status, my body and my money like hungry sharks. They take my hand into their well-manicured ones, promise gold, jewels and romance, but I'm off in thoughts of rough hands and cold black eyes.

 

I set foot in my bedroom flushed and frustrated from long days untouched. I'm a sleek corporate vision but my prison of cashmere is more than uncomfortable. My legs are constrained by nylons, feet aching in their black patent binds. Long hours immersed in thoughts of him tend to leave my skin sensitized, chaffed by thick scratchy lingerie.

 

There's only one man in my mind every time I undress, my hands skimming down the alabaster flesh of my hips in an erotic ritual only I am privy to. I take my time, eyes drifting closed as I reach up to mold hands over my ribs. I then follow along the concave curves of my waist intimately. I want his hands curling into the edge of my panties, pulling them down over my swaying thighs to uncover the hungry flesh beneath.

 

I throw my head back, teal tendrils slowly unfurling from my shoulders to hang down and graze at the curve of my bottom. I can scent his dominant spore growing around me even though he isn't present. It laces through my blood like a potent narcotic, a brand of man that should be banned. The slightest brush of his hand is enough to bow my spine and I'm distinctly aware that no one ever achieved so much with so little, such thirst without intention. I've known the treatment of a lady all my life, lavished in roses and balmy words of flattery. It's been nice and insipid, perfectly right and thoroughly boring. But this is ravenous hunger, every swollen pore crying for defilement.

 

I loll my head to the side and eye the palatial bed. It mocks me with its emptiness, the neat folds signifying sterile nights. It's the first time I meet a man so uncaring about my name, someone who sees me as nothing but human. I feel naked when he looks at me, as naked as I am now, leaning over to stretch across the canopy. The sheets welcome me, embracing me in their cool depths. He should be here, wrapped between Egyptian cotton and eager to meet my demands, but he isn't.

 

I sigh, like I'm sinking into his body and drowning in that godlike power. I have a right to him. I dragged him home like a stray cat; I might as well get something in return for my efforts. I go out of my way to ensure his Saiyan appetite is properly satisfied, certain Pappa's there to tinker with his training toys. The female in me loves him clad in silk Armani robes, clothed in the sexiest low-rider jeans money can buy. There's nothing I don't make available to him even though his taste is austere and his regimen military. Perhaps that's where my error lies, in letting him take me for granted.

 

My lips graze the fluffy pillow beneath me, palms gliding over the hollow of my rib cage and down the flat plane of my midriff. I've finally found my equal, a man powerful enough to truly challenge my mind. For years I've reigned over my own empire, a ruthless queen on an ice throne but he's slowly made me forget that. He makes me want to yield to his every little demand. I fist the sheets in my hands and grimace, struggling to remember who the master is. If I don't reach out and try to seize control fast he's going to twist my mind beyond repair.

 

I'm going to make him fall despite the warnings in my mind. He's much too tempting to ignore. Only a genius of my caliber could wield the tools to achieve that, the scientist in me eager at the prospect of uncovering his secrets. Taming a wild creature could sure be fun.

 

It's a matter of survival, a way to ensure I don't somehow end up losing reason and logic forever. The sooner I act the quicker I'll strip him off his enigmatic persona and squander this god-awful feeling.

 

I cup that narrow strip of blue over my pelvic mound, another palm smoothing over my sternum to repose between my breasts. I want to leave my indelible mark on him, to get right where no woman has. I want to do things to him he'll never forget and erase any horny bitch he indecently fucked in the process. He's going to remember my name, Bulma, for a lifetime and a half. I'll be the one to figure him out.

 

No one has to know. In my scientific book no manner of slipping is allowed. I've already concocted the perfect contraceptive in the darkest corner of the lab, aided by a sample of his DNA taken surreptitiously. The viscous liquid in every shot I'm already giving myself should be enough to effectively counter Saiyan virility and avoid a pregnancy. I'm brilliant like that.

 

People say some fantasies are better left unexplored, I say nothing can break me. The only danger's leaving them unresolved, allowing their acid to eat away at your insides until you're left a cracked up shell.

 

Don't you dare interfere.

 

The memory of his voice perks a nub to attention between my thighs, the muscles in my legs clenching painfully. They're taut with expectation, electrified with need but I slowly melt under my own exhaustion. I fall into deep slumber and begin dreaming. I'm in his Spartan room ready to make my intentions known like a strong, valiant woman. A part of me wants to wake up, but the dream unravels, a twisted tale of unnamable things.

 

In my head I'm sauntering in his direction, ready to assert myself before the prince of arrogance. My white teeth gleam between parted lips, as scarlet as fresh blood. I'm wearing nothing but neck-breaking heels and a sheer black teddy so transparent there's not much left to the imagination. The shoes are torture devices, the rise of the stiletto violent in its shape and needle-like sharp, every bit as fierce as my stance. They are meant for fully grown women, girls dare not apply. A strapped ankle bends slightly, the long, interminable leg it belongs to poised in dominant grace.

 

He sits on the edge of his narrow bed, looking every inch a lazy tiger, his back casually braced against the shadowy wall. His jeans are dark delicious denim, perfectly molded to the thickness of his thighs. They cling dangerously low on his hipbones, lending him a rough and tough air that clashes with his laid-back demeanor. He isn't even touching me and I'm already reacting, a bubble of anticipation popping in my core.

 

His endless black lashes rise, unveiling the ungodly power of those eyes. I get lost in the soft contours of his lips, the plump fullness that begs to be chewed on. The gleam of his biceps and torso steal my gaze away, a thin coat of sweat covering him. His belly button dips temptingly, a tight expanse of bronze calling for a kiss. The muscles ripple rhythmically under the velvet tan of his skin as he gently swipes himself with a towel. He lazily drags the cloth around his neck, over his Adam's apple and down the indentation in the middle of his chest. I gulp, caught in the slow deliberate motion, figuring his body's still hot and damp from a push-up session.

 

The deeply cut lines between his pelvic bones and his abdominal muscles lead straight to the metal button on his pants and a blue brow wings in anticipation. It's all I can do not to offer myself for a much more interesting way to pass the time. He can do push-ups over my prone body all night long if he wants to. A good hostess always aims to please…

 

He looks at me, bottomless eyes promising nothing and everything at once. “The old man's daughter?” He cocks a raven eyebrow in amusement. “Well, isn't that a surprise.”

 

There's a curl to his mouth that cries devil, that conveys nights of total wickedness. I fill up my lungs and remain as still as a doe caught pasturing by a monster, tongue tied and mesmerized. His eyes filter through my curves in roguish abandonment, knees threatening to buckle under his deep scrutiny. He wants me. He knows deep down he'd like to have a go with me.

 

“Is there something you need, human slave? Speak or get out. I dislike wasting my time.”

 

I purse my lips in indignation and tighten my brow as the atmosphere becomes nerve-racking. He deliberately avoids referring to my near nudity and that in itself is more than exhilarating. Neither one of us acknowledges the fact that we're more than eager to fuck but it hangs heavily in the thickening air. He's barefoot. That intimate knowledge sends heat rollicking down my inner walls. I'm grave with my expectation but lift my gaze defiantly, raking it over his powerful frame.

 

“You egotistical prick, you seem to believe I am some sort of personal wench, which I'm not. I'm the most important woman alive. Who are you by comparison? You've got nothing but the clothes on your back. You'd be sleeping in the street like a derelict if I hadn't hauled you in. You should be eternally grateful.” The blue of my eyes darken as I look him over in mulish self-confidence. He's mine. I could buy him if I wanted to. “I always get what I want. Nothing to me is ever denied.”

 

His smirk only amplifies, making the corner of his lips twist up alluringly. He seems bemused, a large cat reveling in the pleasure of an easy catch. He looks at me like he's going to split me open and gobble me up, then lick his fingers one by one. He hangs the towel on his neck and leans forward to brace his elbows on his knees.

 

“Well, there are things you simply cannot have. Didn't your mother teach you that?”

 

“I don't think you fucking understand. Everyone plays by my rules and you aren't an exception.” He chuckles humorlessly in his throat and eyes me like an impertinent little problem in desperate need of a proper fix. He's got his game plan already figured out, I can see it in the pitch black of his eyes. He's a master strategist and I'm merely a pawn. There's an invisible sizzle of raw energy cloaking him, something pulling at me and charging the air. It engorges my every pore and tightens my breasts to stark attention.

 

“Is that so.” He glares at me, his tone not in the least perturbed. In fact he exudes remarkable control, a menace in the hard glint of his eyes. “Why don't you tell me what you want then? You're a disrespectful girl with a dirty mouth. You should have no problem asking for it appropriately.”

 

He effectively corners me, deeming me a frightened victim and I suddenly have trouble coming up with a proper response that would make me proud.

 

“I…”

 

He chases me inside, a wolf preying on my lamb, twining around my synapses with ease. He tisks in dissapointment. “If you don't tell me what you want, how am I supposed to know?” His voice is rich with false concern, a trap set in its husky cadence. My fight or flight instincts kick in and I choose the fight, even though he's obviously a superior hunter. His words are velvet chains, perfectly tough vices of seduction.

 

The inhuman heat of his body is strong, reaching out and washing over me to fire up every cell. His eyes remain locked on me, a three quarter profile and an inquisitive eyebrow ready for the kill. I'm suddenly angry at the injustice of the scenario. No one has a right to be so spine-tightening intense. Gradually I bring my gaze to mesh with his, just in time to see him signaling at the door and locking it up with the force of his ki. “We're perfectly alone now. Do you have any ideas on how we should pass the time?”

 

He carelessly tosses the towel aside and leans back, spreading his legs wide. He allows me a visual overkill of his perfect body, of his narrow waist and naked hips. There's a cruel smile on his kissable mouth as he speaks.

 

“I can't hear you, slave girl. You walk in here acting high and mighty and fail to speak for yourself. What is it you want?” There's condescension in his voice, a heavier brand than usual, but there's also a challenge I know I'll take. “It's just you and me. Your parents are asleep. I'm sure you're aware of that or you wouldn't be here otherwise.”

 

He turns my legs to mush, makes my most private regions blaze up to a raging inferno. “I want to…” I so want to fuck you right now. I want to ride you till you're sore. I'm thinking it, but I can't bring myself to finish the line. I want him answering to me and not the other way around. I especially don't want him making me go beyond my acceptable levels of indecency.

 

“You want to what?” He coaxes persistently, still putting me on the spot like the bastard he is. The way he's slouched drags my glittering eyes straight to the apex of his thighs, where his bulging flesh lays sheathed. I find myself curling my fingers and licking my lips absently.

 

“I want to taste.”

 

“Oh?” He arches a brow inquisitively. “What is it you want a taste of?” He drops his query on me like a powerful bomb, sending my heart into a frenzied gallop. An unintelligible sound crawls from my throat. His face remains implacable as he patiently waits on me, looking deceivingly inviting.

 

My womanly instinct cries a soul splitting howl of self-preservation but I can't be dissuaded. I'm already bent on possessing him. I'm not some spineless bimbo and I'm sure as hell not intimidated by his Saiyan might. My mouth is more than willing to ask for what it covets. “You. I want to taste you.”

 

He immediately looks pleased; so much the feeling is nearly palpable. “What a nasty little girl you are. Do your parents know where you are?” I firmly stand my ground, glaring at him through beautifully made up eyes, taking his slurs like a woman. “Do they know what you want to do with me?”

 

I whip my hair over my shoulders in defiance. It cascades luxuriously, a sapphire waterfall of long heavy curls. He snorts, not waiting for my response. Instead he tilts his head and lounges back, looking every bit the conceited bastard he is. “Of course they don't. They can't sense what I do.”

 

“Oh yes? And what the hell is that.” I narrow my eyes to blue slits of fire and hold his gaze brazenly.

He inhales the air between us, taking in my every scent, from the wild berry shampoo to the flowery sweat. He then bares a fang and purrs like a panther scenting his next meal. Every blood vessel sparks to life, every hair on my skin standing on end. “That you're wet, and you're a bit of a whore, and you want to show me how much.”

 

His lack of political correctness is infuriating. I go wide-eyed but remain stoic, proud and unshrinking under his insults. “Can you smell that on me, you asshole?”

 

I stare him down sullenly, rosy lips drawing into a tight pout of indignity. I know he was meant to rule, he just wasn't meant to rule me. It's about time I show him that.

 

His face hardens into a granite cast but there's an air of ease about his every nuance. “Shhh. Be careful with that mouth, or I'll put it to better use. Be weary how you talk to your superior. Servants have no rights as far as I'm concerned. They're supposed to respect their training dutifully.”

 

“I am not your servant, I am not your handy-man, and I sure as hell am not a `slave girl'. But you…” My eyes soften to liquid pools of blue seduction, meant to lure him into a paradise of pleasure. “I can remind you who you are. You're a man and every man has got needs. Your heart pumps strongly, red hot blood that flows like well distilled liquor. Your body was meant for women like me, women who can work it until the break of dawn.”

 

I run the tips of my fingers over my chest, then place them lightly over the thin straps of the teddy. I want him thinking of skin upon skin, dark bronze rubbing slickly against the silken white of my own. His sinister gaze skims the lacey garment, tracing it down slowly to park on the small thatch of blue hair that darkens the mesh. I can see the smooth surface of his lower abdomen tighten under the weight of his own basest desires.

 

He narrows an eye. “You want to fuck a perfect stranger? You don't even know me. You have no idea what I'm capable of doing to you.”

 

“All I know is you would more than happily oblige if I said I wanted you, Vegeta. You wouldn't resist the thought of me. No one does.”

 

Breasts feel so heavy their weight pulls against my spine. The hardened buds grow darker and thrust hungrily against the mesh, ready for the onslaught of his tongue. I know it would feel rough and velvety, wet and agile as it flicks over them. I can tell he'd be incredibly good in bed.

 

“I'm a fine example of what an earth woman is, more than fit to please any man and you're a great example of alien prowess. We're both fully grown adults so don't tell me what I can and cannot do.” I sound like a spoiled princess, but then again I am. I'm past caring about my flaws.

 

His face turns darker and his slanted smile acquires a sharper edge of cruelty. “No. You're a commoner and I'm a prince and you're stepping well over your boundaries, bitch. You think I'd sink as low as to touch you? What would royalty want with the daughter of an inventor?”

 

I widen my eyes in disbelief. What the hell does it take to get the man in the sack?

 

“Jerk.” The word comes out as a purr, pouring over him like an intimate caress.

 

Something stirs to life in his eyes as he watches me and my bottom tenses in primal instinct. “It takes far more than you bearing your body like the little slut you are for me to comply.” With that he slouches down until his hips repose entirely against the mattress, upper body curved against the wall. He slowly draws a finger to point at the floor and gives me a positively dark look. “It takes you on your knees, showing me the extent of your need. Why don't you try and convince me? Try hard and I might reconsider.”

 

I open my mouth in disbelief, fighting the urge to stalk over and slap him across the face. I know he expects me to flee like a craven little girl, but he's in for a surprise.

 

“Okay. Good.” I snap, sinking to the floor with feminine grace and utmost resolution.

 

He smirks at me with half hooded eyes. “Good.” He counters, more than a bit amused at my predicament.

 

It's hard to say no when you've got top of the line cock served so temptingly. I chant a million excuses in my mind, trying to chase any nagging concerns away. He's got to do more than training, doesn't he? Someone has got to help him relax and I don't see anyone else around.

 

I look at the prominent swell under his fly and slide my palm over it with dead-set determination. My mouth floods instantly and my eyes become veiled with desire. Slim, French-manicured fingers fidget with the metal button and snap it open roughly, then draw the zipper back on its tracks to unwrap him like some succulent meal.

 

He's wearing denim over naked skin. What's he thinking? He's going to chafe that amazing length under the coarse friction of the jeans. The seam could abrade the set of royal jewels he's been so generously endowed with. This can't be left to happen under my own roof to my very own guest. It's time he's shown some TLC. My hands nearly ache with poorly checked want as I pull him free from his confines. His shaft juts unashamedly from between the open halves of his jeans, wet and ready for my tongue. My fingers begin curling over it studiously, banding over the impressive flesh but he quickly knocks my hand away.

 

“I didn't say you could touch me, now, did I slut?”

I pout in disappointment and knit my brows into a frown. “But I thought you wanted me to…”

 

“Don't presume to know me or what I want, slave girl. I'm not your fuck toy. Have a go, but do without your hands. No servant's good enough to so carelessly touch her master.” He slides his fist over himself until he reaches the base, angling the flesh at my lips and looking at me authoritatively.

 

Not once do I break eye contact as my palms slide hungrily up over his jean-clad thighs. I swipe my tongue over my lower lip in preparation before taking him in my mouth. He releases himself and lays arms at his sides before tipping his head back against the wall. He tastes like the heat of the sun, his sweat a strong salty flavor that's both raw and untamed. My nails scrape down the denim on his legs and he grows impossibly thick, dripping with transparent desire. The muscles in my mouth contract and I feel a soul deep ache to slither my hands over his torso, to fan my fingers over his chest and glide them down over the few veins lacing his biceps and forearms.

 

“… that's nice”. He says gruffly, twining sapphire strands of hair around his fingers possessively.

 

He's pure potent musk melting over my tongue but he's much too big. My jaw widens to accommodate him fully, but it becomes an impossible task so I quickly release him to the cool air around us. “I don't think any woman can take you whole, Vegeta. I can't go any further.”

 

He snorts in contempt, black eyes glaring down at me. “You will if you want to please me.”

 

I do. I want to play with him, to curl him around my tongue and see him ride the pleasure I give him but my jaw needs time to recover. I brace my hands on his heavy thighs once more and rebel against his will. Instead of tending to the beautiful red tip of his, my mouth dips down and opens wide over his lower belly. I avidly lick that sunken portion between his hip and his six-pack, leaving a hot wet trail along it. The laddered hillocks on his abdomen contract under the swipes of my tongue, but it's only when I delicately kiss his navel that his stomach jolts with electricity.

 

He growls threateningly and plows his hand deep into my hair, wrenching back so he can look me straight in the eye. His eyes are fraught with death, seething at me. They issue a terrible warning, claiming without words that he's a dangerous species and will do unspeakable things to me should I continue my treacherous ways.

 

I'm back to sating him under the steady pressure of his fist, peeking at him beneath the curve of my lashes. He's reclining, looking every bit an ode to manly decadence.

 

As he finishes he barely flinches, looking all the most severe. I wet my lips, taking in the cherry taste of lip gloss and the distinct flavor of his seed. He then tucks his still throbbing shaft back into the deep blue denim and briefly looks me over. I'm breathing heavily, hair fluttering against my mouth as I stare back tense and kneeling, a prey studying her chances for survival.

 

“You may leave now, under one condition.”

 

He grabs my chin and pulls my face roughly to him, fingers sinking into the hollow of my cheeks painfully. The side of his lips twitches as he utters an ominous phrase. “Say thank you.”

 

“Son of a bitch” I answer, and all he does is laugh deeply, that bone chilling chuckle woven with evil. The sound tapers down but he remains roaming in the depths of my irises, unearthing the reality of who I am, the things nobody knows

 

I attempt to free my face from his steely grasp but the effort proves futile until he roughly lets go. The inertia rocks me back and I fall on my bottom, my hands braced to the side.

 

“You haven't said thank you and mercy is not one of my virtues. When I call upon you next time, you will regret it.”

 

I immediately wake up, heart pounding like its running a race. My eyes are open but unseeing, breath shallow in the silk and lace dominion of my bedroom. Was that a dream or was it a nightmare? I'm uncertain what to call it but I'm glad it's over. His words sail me to new unmitigated heights of sensation but I know he's not my friend and he never will be. Lust is a double-edged sword. I may have brought him into my home but I'm not deluded. I didn't inherit the benevolent character of my parents or their carefree disposition. I know what drives him to train so relentlessly and what his ulterior motives are. He wants my friends, my very brethren, dead, and I along with them. His ultimate goal is to crush Chikyuu in his iron fist and leave it a heap of smoldering shambles.

 

I'm supposed to keep him on a leash, to remain prudent and vigilant of his every move but geniuses are pragmatic. Those haunting eyes have made me lose my mind and the dream proves it. I sigh against the pillowcase, hoping to catch some sleep before morning comes to claim me. It's good it was only a dream.

 

Soon I'll step into uncharted territory and tease the devil, but not today. Nothing could further intimidate me. There's no point in running from the twisted fairytale that my life is, in denying myself what I truly want. So help me Kami and all the deities alive.

 

I want to make love to him.

 

 

Chapter 1:

 

Step 2: Know Your Enemy

 

 

He was as complex as the patterns of light dancing in a diamond.

 

It took her long hours submerged in brick-heavy she kept locked in the most private drawers of her lab to realize that. She flipped through their tiny print, read until her eyes were sore and stinging. She diligently sopped it all up, burning the midnight oil to figure out as much as possible about the object of her fascination.

 

`Anatomy of Behavioral Dysfunctions', `Clinical Overviews on Dissocial Personality Disorder', `War and the Mind', She studied them all, countless papers that exposed the intricacies of his psyche, agonizing second to agonizing second. Little by little his present self vanished to reveal a child. He peeked at her thought a maze, hidden in solitude, lost to the care of all creation. His image haunted her, surfacing in dreams. They were actually more like nightmares, heart wrenching tragedies where she desperately tried to catch up with him, but God… she couldn't. He scurried, moving faster than light beyond her grasp. He was so elusive she couldn't ever see into his eyes. She woke up whimpering and confused at times. Those periods of intense research saw her sleeping with her cheek stuck to the pages, wincing for fear of losing him forever.

 

She stoically delved into the darker pits of every kind of child abuse, physical, emotional and verbal. It plunged her into a dangerous freefall that nearly broke her in half. She almost quit altogether, but she found herself running back inside her office and compulsively putting herself through more. She unearthed every clinical case she could with sound determination. Through that phase she made a point of avoiding him, knowing she wouldn't be able to look him in the eye. What she'd read on was highly disturbing and deeply heart rending. Plus she had guilt and suspicion written all over her face. She was worried he might pick up on it and spoil her plans.

 

After the much necessary researching period was over, her brazenness came back full force.

 

Yes, he was broken but he wasn't broken down and that fascinated her. He was a somber creature, and he was well beyond salvation, but she wouldn't have wanted him otherwise. She was sure he himself didn't know the depths of his own darkness but it was probably best that he remained oblivious. No better defense mechanism exists than not dwelling in the past. Surviving sane implies not counting the scars, remaining thoroughly withdrawn and being so intelligent, he chose to live by that well regimented credo.

 

No, she didn't want him changing. What she wanted was to jump over his walls and join him. She knew people would think her a lunatic, a fool to play with fire, but her nature had always been different than that of the rest and she honestly couldn't care less.

 

Contrary to popular belief, both in the science and business community, she'd never truly been a good girl. They knew she was spoiled, that she'd committed indiscretions as a teenager, but they still wanted her to set an example. They'd been willing to forgive her mistakes from long ago, to bury the scandal of a high-school drop-out.

 

People had nodded in approval at the way she'd reformed and civilized her ex, molding a bandit into a jet-setter. Little did they know she had been happier when he was still only a criminal. But somehow she'd given society what it wanted, turned Yamcha into a project and lost him in the process. Perhaps she'd done it so they left her alone. With age she'd come to understand that life wasn't about giving in to passion and abandon but surviving in the steel jungle of West City.

 

She'd have to have this little sexual escapade without bringing in third parties. If it got leaked not her skillful spokesperson, not any number of official communiqués would be able to fix the harm. The rabid dogs surrounding her had no idea how lonely her pedestal could be. No one has the guts to approach a mordant vixen with enough money to buy a small country. It was that kind of loneliness what came to mind when she saw Vegeta, carrying his private little world on his back. It was inherited loneliness, a thing bestowed to children who didn't have a choice.

 

That day she broke into the room she'd given when he had arrived. She was intent on doing some perfectly harmless reconnaissance, certain she could crack a quark as well as she could crack the fortress of the Saiyan no Ouji. She needed ammo to further her knowledge of her subject and prove her hypothesis. Her eyes roamed restlessly, searching for something that proved he still had a soul, that he wasn't dead yet. It was the necessary step in her scientific method, and Lord knew she was quite methodical.

 

A clean, orderly man. Not a speck of dust around even though he wouldn't allow servo-bots in. He certainly was a catch, if you could get past the menacing glower, that is. Her stomach fluttered at the remarkable idea of him dusting off his meager belongings in his free time. He had plenty of that when he wasn't training. Being an elite soldier in the ranks of hell surely meant minding every detail. It was probably the kind of behavior that could keep anyone alive. Unfortunately, a wreck would have provided her with more information. She hastily rummaged through the closet, hair falling against her face in disarray as she browsed through his clothes. She was aghast at the martial orderliness, but not too surprised at the lack of any ostentation beyond the things she'd given him. He was obviously not the kind of person to place much importance on material possessions, placing value instead on pride, strength and honor. A mere flaunt of the bottomless black credit card she'd handed him could have made any clerk cream his pants but he'd yet to use it.

 

Great. This could only mean he was more tightly wound than she'd initially theorized. He'd be completely uncomfortable coming out of his shell. How could someone like that surrender to the prose of love-making? It was a challenge, but far from putting her off, in only fueled her spirit. She thrived on the possibility of failure and the idea of his hot searing body enveloping her like a blanket.

 

She was crouched against the open door of the closet, burying her nose in one of his t-shirts. God that was good, like an incredibly fresh mountain breeze. He came to earth with nothing but his pride and rugged good looks, carrying his vulnerability like a cloak and luring her with it. Something about him reminded her of a wounded lion, too dangerous for anyone to approach and too proud to take anyone's help anyway. He'd rather sit in a dark corner and lick his wounds alone. Death was preferable to him than appearing weak in the least. She knew how much he disliked the idea of needing her, of admitting he depended on her to live decently on earth. She played along, courting his ego just because she couldn't bear the thought of him leaving, of abandoning her with so many questions unanswered, but enough was enough.

 

She opened a mahogany dresser and a gleam within his armor caught her eye immediately. She unfolded it and found a single most perplexing object, a small medallion, hung on a thick shiny chain. It looked ancient but glimmered like a prism, two colorful star-like designs overlapping over an encrusted diamond the color of fire. The purity was such she knew it had to be a royal jewel, a remnant of the house of Vegitasei. Nothing could have effectively beaten down the rush of excitement that suddenly swamped her. He obviously carried it inside his armor everywhere he went, holding on to his identity with deadly fierceness. He was the monarch that could never be, the ghost of a boy that fell under the reign of a tyrant and lost it all. Did that maniac ever let anyone close to him? Did Vegeta actually ever manage to be with a woman despite Frieza? Worse, despite himself?

 

She pondered how much silence a sentient being was able to survive, how much isolation anyone could take. He'd rather stay here than go outside whenever her friends came by. He wouldn't let himself be seduced by small conversation or barbeques. What did he do besides train, eat and sleep, in that order? Did he sit on his bed replaying past battles, old failures and victories from a life spent in servitude? She bet he wrestled with his demons, threading fingers through that black mane of hair while their carefree chatter seeped beneath the door.

 

She let her gaze wander to the singlewide bed that didn't appear to have been used the night before. There was a chair next to the window, padded with a couple of silk cushions her mother had brought from the Far East. It seemed he'd rather sleep sitting down, recreating the feel of a space pod. How did he stand the suffocating constrains of that hollow metal ball and live to want more? He'd kept himself alive on nothing but hope and anger and the overwhelming need for a revenge that never truly came. He'd been somebody's possession all his life, destitute and lost. A string of remorse reverberated within her but she promptly plucked it out. She was sure she'd make a more gracious owner. She'd wake up the man the lizard buried under his tyranny.

 

She hoped she was his first woman, loving the idea of being carved in his skin forever. After all, everybody remembers their first time. Sometimes she even dreamed she'd manage to keep him around for more than a few months. That's what she'd explained her parents with unswerving determination the day she'd brought him home. She'd employed the same unwavering tone she'd used 15 years earlier when a stray pup had followed her home. She was glad her parents had a thing for hard luck cases and abandoned pets. God knew she'd gone against them anyway.

 

She'd do whatever it took so he climbed down from that icy summit and laid buried in her arms. He was going to like the feeling of silk against his hot heavy flesh. With her he'd learn of proper caresses, of ecstasy in something other than bloodshed and villainy. Why not Vegeta? One single night, just you and me. Nobody has to know how you let go beneath my touch. I won't tell how much you liked it, how much you enjoyed every little second of it. I won't tell that we made love.

 

The door opened and she hastily sprung to a standing position, making sure to push the open drawer with her hip. Like she'd beckoned him with her thoughts he trudged in, sweaty and badly bruised from another torture session. He cradled his bandaged forearm, scarlet stains tainting the fabric to an angry red. He was so worn out and beaten his face denoted it. He looked moodier than usual, once again angry over his failure at becoming a Super Saiyan. The pain and exhaustion he carried was such it struck her hard right in the chest.

 

He didn't acknowledge her, merely gritting his teeth as he walked past her to drop himself on the bed, bracing his back against the wall tiredly. Oh, this scenario seemed familiar. It reminded her of her previous night dream. She remained rooted, looking at him like a dumbstruck child. He was the man of her dreams, her darkest, most sinful dreams and he was more than completely unaware. Talk about self-absorbed. He began to un-bandage his arm, breath ragged and muscles clenching as dark blood spilled profusely and dripped down from his fingertips. She nearly gasped, worried at the extent of his wounds and eager to tend to him but he'd only push her away, wouldn't he?

 

“What are you doing here?”

 

Not a single look, only his acrid tone to greet her and yet how oddly captivating it was. It drew her in with a power short of mesmerizing.

 

“I brought you a snack.” Her mouth moved by rote. She'd come in carrying a platter as a perfect excuse to be there. The tasteful array of simple delights lay idle on the dresser to the side. He still wasn't looking at her, his attention narrowly focused on the gruesome spectacle that was his arm. She bravely knelt down before him, drawn to the long gash running down his elbow to his wrist. Had he put his fist through the jagged innards of another training bot? She lifted a bird-boned hand to touch him but he swatted it away without granting her a look. He treated her like a bothersome gnat. That rejection stung in ways she wasn't prepared to scrutinize. She could fix him, couldn't he see that?

 

His breath remained laborious and his features tense. The pain etched in his face deepened as he methodically pressed fingers to the wound to staunch the blood loss. He then grabbed and pulled mercilessly until his bone cracked audibly into position.

 

The prince might be a ruthless ass. He might like portraying himself as invincible but that moment she understood he bled like any other man. He was alien but his blood ran as red as her own. Would his body feel with the same intensity as hers when they reached the cusp? She had to know how long he could go before losing control. Could she make him lose control?

 

“Vegeta, you're hurt. Please, let me take a look at you.” She softly wheedled, like a handler lulling a wounded beast. She loved the vivid color of his blood. Its abundance spoke of pain, but it also spoke of life. So much suffering could only mean an equal ability for pleasure. She was going to show him there was another side to life than just never-ending hurt.

 

He reclined against the wall, folding his aching arm up against his chest. He then regarded her with uneasiness, the ice of his gaze replaced by bewilderment. She knew that look. He wasn't comfortable with her proximity. My God, this man needed major coaxing. Tricking him into bed was a task of monumental proportions, far above the capability of a simple mind.

 

“You're acting like you've never seen a woman before, like you've never been this close to one.” Her tone masked a question she dare not ask. She held her breath in expectation, her pulse frantic. Come on, baby, throw me a bone here. It's in your best interest.

 

He seemed a bit startled that she'd bring such a thing up. It was the first time they'd been this close and her deliberate invasion of his space was throwing him off his orbit. He frowned in suspicion, one eye slightly wider then the other.

 

“Don't be stupid you bitch.”

 

He then stared elsewhere, something quirking in his lip. He was gorgeous but far too brutal. Something unnamable flickered in the midnight pools of his eyes, something that looked like mortification.

 

Any other man would already be hitting on her, tempted by the curve of her lips and the way she was suggestively kneeling over his lap but he gave the word rigid a whole new definition. Such caustic personality was could have only been forged in the funkiest hole of the universe.

 

“I'm not a slave, wench, or bitch. Do you even know what my name is?” There was a sour edge of displeasure to her voice but her eyes were still sparkling with concern. They were fraught with a deeper kind of desire, one that exceeded lust.

 

He let his eyes drift over to hers slowly, his nose still angled to the side. An endless moment lay heavily between them before he spoke. “Your name is perfectly irrelevant to me.”

 

She cautiously lifted her eyes, a gleam of blue as dark as the raging oceans. A finger traced an invisible path on the blanket alongside his thigh, almost touching him but not daring. “My name's Bulma Briefs, and I'm perfectly harmless. I want to heal your wounds, if you'd only let me. I know I can make it better.”

 

“I don't want you to.” He curtly responded. “And it's got nothing with you being a female. I know more than enough about that. I just don't want anyone interfering in my life.” He was now facing her directly. “So do me a favor, human. Fuck off.”

 

Fuck off? Not without asking a few more questions. There was something that troubled her and she quickly voiced her mind. “What do you mean you know more than enough?” She couldn't avoid the edge of bitterness in her voice. Had he just said he knew more than enough about women? And here she was thinking she'd be his first. Of course the man wasn't a eunuch. No one that looked that way could be.

 

“What the hell are you talking about?” He deepened his brows, pissing her off further with his unwillingness to respond. Oh, kami. You have no idea what you got yourself into the minute you said yes to living here, mister.

 

“You said you knew more than enough about women?” She repeated, raising a delicate eyebrow saucily. She was suddenly seething with ire. “What exactly is it you know?”

 

His eyes widened in disbelief at her brazen attitude. He looked charming when the tops of his cheeks reddened. There was a boyish air about him whenever he was caught off guard, the usually stern brackets around his full lips softened and he looked infinitely human. He snarled and she immediately tensed, like a rabbit scenting true, life-threatening danger. She hoped he wouldn't blast her off for her impertinence.

 

“What I know is that I'd rather train.”

 

Well, he was a skillful dodger of insidious questions, alright. But the hidden implications were oddly soothing. It seemed prior experience had left him unimpressed.

 

“Really? That bad?” She commented, her expression carefully demure.

 

He raised his imperious nose, directing his gaze elsewhere. “Eating, training, acquiring power. That's a much more productive use of any man's time.”

 

“Wow, alien females must be rather ugly bitches.”

 

Vegeta glared at her in annoyance, two arrogant pupils digging into her soul.

 

“You're nothing but a foolish human being. You'd have to live a thousand years to witness a fraction of what I had at the age of fifteen. The galaxy thrives with countless species which aren't all that displeasing to the eye. Get back to me once you've walked the bridges of Ixia or the streets of Cynara.”

 

Bulma knew the ugly face of jealousy right there and then and she didn't like it one bit. A million scenarios flitted through her imaginative mind, some of them lewd enough to send her jaw clenching. She felt like jumping him right that minute and making him forget every single whore he'd fucked.

 

“Talk to me once you've had a human girl, not that you ever will. Talk to me when you've known softness of the body and the mind and passion so genuine it overflows the spirit.” They engaged in a staring contest, she fierce and rebellious, him ticked off but unable to muster a response. He then pushed himself off the bed, issuing a deep reverberating growl and striding away to the bathroom.

 

She found her feet and watched him rinse the blood off his arm, aware she'd overstayed her welcome. Blood swirled off his arm and into the white porcelain of the sink. He then splashed cool water on his face, diamond beads trailing haphazardly over it until they reached his chin and spilled over to his chest. Water glittered off his long ebony hairs, weighing a lank so it stuck to his forehead waywardly. She took it all in without making a move to leave, still intent on answering one last question that remained unvoiced. Did he also like what he saw when he looked at her?

 

He turned to regard her from the corner of an eye, then sauntered towards the doorframe and propped an arm up against it. The staring game was getting old, and it was seriously fraying at her nerves. “Bitch.” Was all he whispered, but it wasn't dished with his usual viciousness. It was more like a warning, like he knew what she was up to. She felt intimately touched by it; the word was more like an indecent caress than an insult.

 

He waited patiently, pressuring her off his territory but she remained unmoving. Her scarlet lips puckered up slightly as she looked at him. There was a promise of retribution in her eyes as they narrowed to perfect daggers meant to slice him apart.

 

He remained poised like the king of the food chain, his sheer presence enough to make anyone run away with their tail between their legs. But Bulma of Chikyuu didn't ever retreat. She never backed down in the face of a threat.

 

It was only a matter of time before one of them tired, before one of them slipped and betrayed him or herself in the soundless game they'd begun. A clue, grant me a clue that you also want me.

 

And then, to her infinite elation, his will backfired on him.

 

In a fraction of a second, so small she could have missed it, his gaze lowered to her cleavage, then quickly slid over her legs feverishly. He returned to her face but it was already too late to rectify his actions.

 

I noticed it Vegeta. I noticed you slip.

 

A satisfied smirk tugged at her lips and she looked away, sashaying towards the door to exit his dominion. His eyes followed her. She could feel their unwavering power as she shut the door behind her and made it to the relative safety of the corridor.

 

He did want her, even if he couldn't acknowledge it. That notion made her forget all her other concerns and abandon the worry that he'd be too emotionally stifled to ever let go. The idea of love making was as foreign to him as common courtesy but that didn't undermine her excitement.

 

The glow of the lights at the base of the corridor lit her steps and she smiled, thinking them the prettiest things ever. Requited lust was one of the best feelings ever, only comparable to the pleasure of victory.

 

He wouldn't have to lift a finger. He could leave it all to her, the fine art of sneaky infiltration. He may know about filthy, unengaged sex, but he didn't know anything more sublime than that. He had much to discover, too many years of pent-up tension left to discard.

 

What risk could there be in having a little bit of fun? The way she saw it, they both won. It's not as if he was marriage material, but then she was well aware of that. She didn't expect a golden ring on her finger. She had a right to have fun with perfectly wrong, dangerous men if she wanted to and this particular one was there, ripe for the taking.

 

She halted her step and leaned against the wall, looking at an indefinite point in the carpet. She smiled under half-lidded eyes and twirled a blue ringlet in her finger. Could his powerful hands caress skin as well as they destroyed entire planets? She should find out tomorrow.