Gena Showalter Bundle: The Stone Prince / The Pleasure Slave / Heart of the Dragon

The Stone Prince

The Pleasure Slave Heart of the Dragon

The Stone Prince

The Pleasure Slave

Heart of the Dragon

About the Author

By Gena Showalter

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

EPILOGUE

KATIE JAMES COASTED HER fingertips across the muscled chest before her. Warmth tingled through her arm, a drugging warmth more intoxicating than expensive champagne and moonlight kisses. Her lips parted on a wispy catch of breath as images of silk sheets, entwined bodies and slow, delicious caresses filled her mind.

How could this man affect her so powerfully, almost magically? How could he affect her at all when he’d never spoken a word to her? His face was beauty personified, yes, but that wasn’t enough to entrance her like this, to leave her weak and shaky every time she glanced at him.

There had to be something more to him, something elemental. Something beyond physical beauty that lured her every feminine desire. At the moment, though, she could not think past his physique, and slowly, so slowly her gaze moved over him. He was granite-hard, his abdomen ridged with sinew, his shoulders wide and firm. All of this gave his tall, sculpted frame a dangerous aura—dangerous and utterly sensual. He belonged in the woods with raw, naked branches surrounding him. Yet he stood outside among a brilliant crimson and yellow drapery of azaleas, somehow the absolute essence of masculinity.

“Mmm,” she sighed, her eyelids fluttering closed. Her hand dropped to her side. “If only you were real….”

But he wasn’t. He was formed entirely of smooth, gray stone—a beautiful statue, nothing more. This was one of the ironies of fate, she supposed, that the first man to ever truly captivate her belonged in a museum and not in her bed.

Why was she surprised by her infatuation with a beautiful, silent, unreal man, anyway? Having grown up with five older brothers, she knew just how annoying real men could be. They burped and scratched in public, cracked derogatory jokes, and somehow managed to charm the pants off women before losing interest and moving on to other conquests.

Her stone warrior could not offend her. He couldn’t choose someone else if he thought her unattractive or too tall, because he was permanently mounted to the colored marble base that stood in her garden gallery. A marble base she now stood upon.

Another sigh slipped past Katie’s lips, and she fought a deep, primitive urge to touch him again, to hold him, to discover some sort of comfort or acceptance she’d never gained with the procession of men she dated.

This is wrong. I should walk away.

But she didn’t.

The cool Dallas breeze ruffled the tight constraints of her ponytail but did little to cool her ardor, and with each passing second the stone warrior’s stare unraveled the very fabric of her reservations. Finally, Katie gave in to her craving. She dragged her fingers across his jawbone, loving the slightly bearded texture that reminded her of a man just before his morning shave. She traced the curved outline of his ears and imagined what he would feel like had he been the flesh and blood man she so desired.

Fiery heat rippled across her nerve endings.

Of their own accord, her fingertips wandered lower, caressing his neck. His shoulders. His chest. She even circled his small, puckered nipples. A soft moan of pleasure wafted to her ears, the timbre low, raspy and masculine.

Katie jerked back in surprise. After a moment she relaxed, even experienced a twinge of disappointment when she realized her imagination was simply running wild. Again. Hadn’t she sometimes felt his breath upon her face when she drew close? Hearing him moan was no more fantastical than that.

Gravel crunched as a car meandered along her driveway.

Katie jerked around and watched wide-eyed as a black sedan halted just in front of her dilapidated, Victorian-style mansion. Tendrils of mortification raced up her spine, heating her cheeks. She’d been so lost in her scrutiny of the stone warrior, she’d forgotten about prying eyes and midday sunlight.

Just what had this intruder seen?

She scrambled from the dais. The moment her feet hit the soft grass, she counted to ten, using the time to calm her racing heart. She should have resisted the statue’s allure; instead she’d acted like a teenage girl kissing her favorite rock star’s poster. Well, no more, she thought, determination stiffening her spine. There will be no more touching the statue. In fact, there will be no more looking at him, and absolutely, positively no more thinking about him.

She watched a handsome, familiar male emerge from the sedan. Never one to back down from conflict, she maneuvered around the bushes and flower beds of her “pleasure garden”—so dubbed by the previous owner because the entire enclosure was littered with naked sculptures similar to the warrior she wasn’t going to think about ever again—and marched to the driveway.