*** Well, here's a little something for you guys!

My final chapter of "Yellow Roses" is getting much longer and emotional than I had anticipated, so I decided to take a little break from it and write something a bit naughtier than usual. I won't lie, there isn't much of a plot going on in this one, but my serious Vegebul addiction means that, quite often, a hot song will give me inspiration for one of my stories, so I just couldn't help myself!

I hope you enjoy this one... ***

*** As always, my smut is censored here. Please visit AO3, where I publish under the name of SarahW, to read all the naughty goodies in the fully uncensored version. Thank you! ***

Take all of me

I just wanna be the girl you like, girl you like

The kinda girl you like

Is right here with me

[Beyoncé; 'Partition']

He stands furtively in the dark hallway, ready to go in a pair of black jeans and an equally black shirt, smooth silk enveloping his every muscle as he hungrily feasts on the erotic spectacle unfolding before his ravenous eyes.

There she is, his wife, leaning shamelessly on the marbled counter of their luxurious bathroom while admiring her own sublime beauty in front of the grand mirror, door wide open, putting on a show just for him, knowing how to push his every button, how to make him weak with desire with nothing but the swing of a hip or a lascivious look shot through her own reflection.

Vegeta doesn't even know anymore just how many years they've spent together, all he knows is that he can't recall a life where she wasn't in it, a word he hasn't heard spilled from her lips, or a curve of that glorious body that hasn't been tainted by his filthy touch.

And yet, though it's been so long ever since his Bulma made herself a home underneath the coldness of his skin, she still moves and inspires him like the very first time, pulling at the frozen strings of his once hardened heart with a unique savviness that only she possesses.

He should have grown used to this by now, to her impish games and innate playfulness, he should be strong enough to at least try to resist her wicked charms, that magical something that's kept his soul soundly chained to hers through it all. But the more he takes, the more he needs, and tonight, as he walks leisurely in her direction, with the lazy steps of a large predator, he knows what he always knew, that he belongs to this woman just as much as she belongs to him, and there's no escape, for they can each read the other's intricate mind as if it were their own.

His body chases after his chosen prey, offering one last move of stubborn resistance when he forces himself to stop a mere few steps behind her, resting coolly on the doorframe, deprived arms crossed tensely in front of his chest, ravishing every inch of naked skin while his woman finishes her feminine ritual, dolling herself up before she'll steal him for herself, having promised him one of those unforgettable nights that she treats him with, every now and then.

Onyx pupils dilate as they follow the sinuous path traced by her expensive lip brush, red wine rouge spreading all over her parted mouth with the precision of a supreme artist.

He's never cared much for such frivolous ornaments, relishing her beauty instead in each and every conceivable way, from her makeup free mornings of tousled hair and sneaky cuddles in their lavish bed, to the proud exhaustion beaming in her face after one of her long nights of punishing work, when he drags her by force away from her laboratory, with her small hands covered in thick grease as she barely subsists on watery black coffee.

But, on a night like this, he can't help but admire her from afar, awed by her womanly gift to embellish herself with such meticulous skill. At times, she makes him wonder if she truly is the Goddess of Beauty in flesh, and he takes great pleasure in likening her luxurious maquillage to the war paint of a wild Amazon, a dangerous warrior anticipating her next kill, using her flawless body, the most lethal weapon of them all, as bait for the poor, defenseless man who'll ever dare to cross her way.

She presses her lips together, pursing them for the briefest moment as she admires the work of art looking right back at her, a faint hum vibrating in her throat, following the sounds of soft jazz drifting in the air, the sensual melody merging to perfection with the way her upper lip curls with smug cheekiness, the sensual grin of a woman who knows herself to be, not only watched, but worshiped senselessly.

"Ready?" Bulma purrs sinfully, her question brimming with a million promises, and a pair of hypnotizing blue eyes lingering openly on him, gleaming with seductive approval as she examines him from head to toe through the image in the misty glass.

His woman is looking good and she knows it, so damn good he can't think of any other trickery that she might conceive to improve herself even further. Still, even if everything in her is screaming her eagerness to get the night going, she chooses to rebel just a little longer, standing insolently in front of the golden mirror, open hands splayed on the polished stone as she keeps leaning invitingly, the bridge of one heeled foot gliding naughtily across her naked leg, putting herself on display for his starved eyes only.

Giving in is for the faint of heart, a weakness that he very rarely ever allows himself, but she's his one and only weakness, the one desperate indulgence whose magnetic pull he won't even dare to defy anymore, and it's not long before he's standing behind her, punishing her by not fully pressing his robust form against her own soft one, and choosing to leave a narrow space in between them instead, enough to tease her with the provoking temptation of his unnatural body heat, without giving her yet what she so avidly needs.

Her enticing lips smirk triumphantly when a large hand wraps itself around the nape of her exposed neck, strong fingers carefully stroking the tender skin, feeling his own ego swelling in victory at the sensation of her delicate pulse already throbbing in anticipation.

She doesn't move, doesn't utter a word when that obscene hand begins a gentle exploration of the silkiness of her naked skin, slipping down her creamy back as he savors every curve and every bone, every inch of that fleshly body, so utterly fragile, yet strong enough to give him two beautiful children that, at times, he still feels wholly undeserving of.

It's been no more than a week ever since their little girl has entered their vibrant world, with the assistance of a mystical Angel no less, and although his wife has already recovered from such a miraculous event, Vegeta can still easily detect the delicious changes enhancing that immaculate figure, happily reveling in each and every one of them, a rascally schoolboy captive in an enchanted Wonderland.

His Bulma is all softness and attractive curves, a lovely reminder of the things worth fighting for, of all the appetizing flavors he wouldn't have the chance to taste anymore if the world ever came to an end.

It's hard to believe, as that mischievous hand traces a graceful path across her flesh, that he just barely returned to her in one piece, after fighting one of his most grueling battles, one that almost cost him his own life, a worthless life that he would have gladly renounced to for her sake, and that of their treasured family.

Only days ago she was throwing herself at him, laying their newborn child in his arms as they both burst into tears of joyful relief. She embarrassed him relentlessly back then, just as she always does whenever her foolish human sentimentality takes a hold of her, those public demonstrations of affection which are becoming so surprisingly common, and that he's found himself embracing more and more as years go by.

Roguish fingertips reach the hem of her short, backless dress, delving into the depths of the sequined fabric, and grunting in pure excitement when he encounters nothing but bare skin, and the thin strip of the scanty thong that barely serves her as underwear. A full palm covers the smooth flesh of one perky ass cheek, squeezing that juicy little peach as he chuckles maliciously, thrilled by the sounds of his wife's muffled moans.

His hand opens, rubbing slow circles all over her round bottom, glorying in the exhilarating feel of his battle-worn skin contrasting with her own feminine softness, and bracing himself for his second sneak attack as he gets even closer, wet mouth descending on her, lightly nipping at her vulnerable neck while kneading her flesh yet again. A quick arm encircles her narrow waist when she loses her balance, a vicious rush of arousal hitting her as she bows to him, humbly lowering her head as he lavishes her nape with long, sensuous kisses, already afraid that they won't even make it to wherever his cunning woman is planning to take him tonight.

"Oh!" Bulma whimpers in need when the tip of his tongue expertly finds her weak spot below her ear, leaning against him and resting her dizzy head on his solid shoulder, shaky arms raising, desperately holding onto his neck.

"What is it, Bulma?" He murmurs libidinously in her ear, peeking shamelessly at the scrumptious reflection staring right back at them in the mirror, drinking in the way her eyes close as her body twists and trembles in desire, her back arching wantonly into his hands when they cup her generous breasts. "Uh?" A husky whisper insists obstinately, thick fingers gently fondling her inflamed nipples through the sleek fabric of her dress, touching her tits just how she likes it. "Is this what you want?"

"Uh-huh…" Her mouth opens as she assents meekly, gasping for air when one of his hands reaches down her side, skimming through her curvy hip and skimpy dress, and finding its golden prize right between her milky thighs.

The heavy aroma of her lust for him invades his senses, blending exquisitely with the artificial sweetness of her scented candles, an intoxicating reminder that she's here, right here, with him, and that they've both survived yet another obstacle, another poisonous menace threatening to turn their world to ashes.

But nothing will take her away from him.

Not tonight.

Not ever.

Not when she turns to him, thirsty mouth melting against his, demanding that he takes full ownership of what's rightfully his with a deep, smoldering kiss. His spine tingles when her tongue slickly entangles with his own, moving in unison with the depraved fingers running up and down the damp scrap of lace infuriatingly hiding her sex from him.

He hooks one arm around her shoulders to keep her still, caressing her swollen core through her underwear with terrifying skill, burning in that never-ending fire consuming them both as she squirms and wriggles in his possessive hold. Her back keeps curving as her tight bottom rubs against the hard bulge rising in his pants, mocking him, letting him know that she's not the only one already dancing on the edge of madness.

"Ve-Vegeta…" She whispers breathlessly against his lips, both hands frantically clutching the strong arm holding her prisoner when his free hand teasingly toys with the thin waist of her raunchy lingerie.

"I want a taste, Bulma," he murmurs roughly, swallowing her needy moans as he greedily suckles on her bottom lip. "Just a taste…" His hand cups her Venus mound, a self-satisfied snicker grumbling in his throat when her legs stiffen in instant reaction, closing around the five wicked fingers that can make her see Heaven in ways no other man ever has. "And I want you to watch while I take it…"

Bulma won't fight him, stripped from all reason or will to disobey, and she faces the mirror, narrowed eyes clouded in lust, taking a good look at herself, and at the beautiful, deadly specimen that she calls her husband. Bulma has always known him to be a good man, always held the power to see through a heart he'd never been taught how to use, but damn him if he doesn't look like the Prince of Darkness himself tonight, raven eyes piercing right through her soul, corrupting her with one single, merciless look.

She can feel her astute little plot going to pieces when he presses his cheek against hers, smirking in smug satisfaction at her short, disheveled hair, and at the irresistible smudge of black mascara framing those magnificent eyes of hers as she curses him for spoiling her plans.

Tonight was meant to be for him, a night of sheer, mindless pleasure, just a woman craving to reward her man for a job well done, for saving their entire Universe and coming back to her, just as she always knew he would. But she may have miscalculated, after all, underestimating the overwhelming effect that his raw masculinity exerts through every part of her, turning her into a powerless, shivering mess, eagerly spreading her legs for him when his knee nudges them, gently but firmly, with enough dominance to make her give herself to him with not one word of protest.

Her teeth sharply chew on her lip when two of his fingers...

*** Censored bits! ***

By the Gods is she gorgeous, so absolutely fucking gorgeous that, at times, it hurts to look at her, his chest tightening at the realization of such a creature having chosen him, and him alone, to share her life and father her children. She's everything he could have ever dreamed of in a woman, exceeding his expectations in every imaginable way, understanding and accepting, taking him just as he is, respecting his innumerable boundaries and eccentricities, and saving her sensuous warmth and eroticism for the sacred privacy of these moments of intimacy, transforming into a different woman, his own pleasure girl, whenever he has her all to himself.

*** Censored bits! ***

Vegeta keeps her firmly trapped in his tight embrace, mouth brushing her trembling shoulders as he licks every salty drop now coating her glistening skin, her sated bliss tasting like the finest of delicacies, a Morsel for the Gods melting in his mouth.

She doesn't even know how she finds the strength, not only to stand on those impossibly high heels, but to keep her eyes open, observing her own reflection as the faint ghost of a lazy smile etches itself on her lips, beaming at the woman audaciously staring back, brazen and strong, utterly ravished, begging for her man to take all of her, yearning to become the kind of girl he likes, the one leaving behind her inhibitions, and fulfilling his every fantasy, every impure need pillaging his soul.

His mouth meets hers for a prolonged, sloppy kiss, dragging out such an enthralling instant as his hand leisurely pulls out of her, with that gripping gentleness that his otherwise brutal touch reserves only for her.

"I told you…" A rugged murmur caresses the pouty lips whimpering at the loss of his heat. "I just wanted a taste…" Vegeta hints in his best bedroom voice, bringing one finger to his sultry mouth, and greedily lapping up the lewd proof of her desire for him, not even bating an eyelid when her tongue avidly seeks the other one, tasting herself on him like the good little kitten she pretends to be.

He steals a last kiss from her as soon as they're done feasting on the aphrodisiac essence, a dominant hand on the back of her head bringing her to him, taking her breath away with the force of a thousand hurricanes as he indulges in his wife's heavenly taste just a tad longer, before grudgingly letting go of her.

A crooked smirk darkens his handsome features at the sound of her unsatisfied moan, and at the girlish gasp she accidentally lets out when he squeezes her peachy bottom yet again, playfully smacking the delicate flesh and getting out of there without another word, giving her some extra time to fix that deliciously ruined makeup before he'll do something he won't even regret, like throwing her right on that goddamned marbled counter, and fucking her senseless until she can't even remember her name anymore.

Minutes later, the alluring echoes of those sharp stilettos announce that his Bulma is good to go, ready to embark on another one of her scandalous journeys.

She finds him waiting at the end of the long corridor, leaning nonchalantly against the wall, with that infuriating coolness that not even a woman like herself has ever had the willpower to resist, and she smiles in the dark when a secure hand wraps itself around hers, rough fingers interlacing with her own dainty ones as he takes the initiative.

Her Prince guides her quietly to their mansion's backdoor, their preferred escape route for their steamy adventures, two secret lovers taking flight, disappearing into the night in search of a secluded spot where they can set free, the primal need to give into each other as vital as the air they breathe.

The black limousine's powerful engine roars the minute Vegeta enters the over-the-top vehicle, right after assisting his wife, chivalrously opening the door for her, and holding her hand with great care as she carefully steps inside, treating her like the Queen that they both know her to be at heart.

An addictive, rhythmic beat inundates the atmosphere as the chauffeur starts up the car, driving slowly throughout the dimly lit, serpentine streets of West City, prying eyes peeping through the rear-view mirror at the pair of endless legs swinging distractedly while Bulma pours herself a large glass of Château Margaux, with the intention to share it with the oversexed Saiyan eyeing her as if she were good enough to eat, fighting the urge to sink those voracious fangs into his favorite blue little cupcake.

She accommodates herself on her cushy seat, leaning elegantly on the black leather while those glossy lips of hers sip on the outrageously expensive drink, dazzling eyes staring abstractedly out the window as she toys with a few strands of lustrous hair. Her makeup has been methodically touched up, but she still radiates that libertine glow, that freshly fucked look that makes him want to finish what they started in that blasted bathroom, but he won't, not yet, not until the naughty minx shows him what it is that she has in store for him tonight.

Satiated lips pop audibly after tasting yet another sip of fancy liquor, her kittenish smirk breaking through his spirit when she turns to him, impudent legs crossed seductively, swinging one of them back and forth as a turquoise lock keeps twirling around her finger. He can hear them, he can almost hear the wheels turning inside that genius brain of hers, surely plotting his demise, the most effective gambit to make him lose himself for all Eternity, never to be found again.

"Would you like some?" She asks in a silky undertone, languidly stretching her arm, offering her glass to him with suspicious generosity while the most mischievous glint swims behind her rowdy gaze.

He doesn't hesitate, a dark eyebrow cocked in amusement as he keenly accepts her invitation, taut fingers clasping her wrist, keeping her hand in place while he leans into the glass, lowering his chin, a few unruly drops of red wine dripping down his angular jaw as he thirstily gulps on his wife's pricey alcohol.

Her rosy tongue finds the corner of her mouth, swiping back and forth, enjoying the perfect excuse he's just given her to make her next move, ready to reclaim what's duly hers.

"Tsk, tsk…" She mockingly chastises him, her empty glass forgotten, rolling across the car's floor and landing right behind the driver's seat as she proceeds to crawl towards her man like a devious little snake.

She seeks shelter by his side, one curvy hip melding against the ode to masculinity that is her husband, and a slender arm draped around his shoulder as she leans shamelessly into him, the sensual idleness of her movements crashing with the delectably pointy nails digging into his flesh when her thin fingers roughly grab his stern jaw.

"Now look what you've done…" A broken whisper ghosts the caramel skin of his neck, the sudden aggressiveness in his woman's touch making a dark, forbidden side of him snap for good this time. "Come here, Baby… Let me show you how it's done…"

Bulma's full tongue darts out, lapping up every drop of the intoxicating brew like a greedy little beggar, travelling from the tip of his manly jaw to the furious seam of his lips, his mouth opening wide, welcoming her insatiable gluttony as their mouths engage in a passionate kiss.

In the back of his irrational mind, Vegeta's senses are still awakened enough to notice the lecherous voyeur eavesdropping on them, trying not to crash as he drives their extravagant car while poking his filthy nose into the tiny mirror, obviously intrigued, perhaps even worked up, by the almost pornographic scene arising in the opulent backseat.

A dark voice resonates in his head, an ominous warning commanding him to blast the nosy bastard to smithereens, purely for committing the Capital Sin of daring to set his worthless eyes on his Bulma.

But, as his woman sets his inmost soul on fire, burning him alive with the help of a viperous tongue and a pair of hands holding onto him as if only he had the power to rescue her from her own insanity, the Prince can hear an even darker echo bursting into malevolent laughter, pleading for him to let the useless idiot enjoy the show just a little longer, tempting him to play the diabolical game of letting him watch, if only so he can see that he'll never, in a million years, get to enjoy a piece of ass as succulent as the one he took possession of, so long ago.

And so he lets him, allowing the dirty ogler to gorge on the way he fondles and squeezes his wife's soft flesh, unholy hands hooked around her slim waist, needing to feel her as close as he possibly can without taking off her suggestive dress yet, hands running up and down, rubbing and caressing, hotly venturing under her short skirt and leaving his mark, handprints and good grips all over her tight little ass.

"What do you want? Mhm?" Bulma sighs breathlessly, lips sore, bruised from the ferocious kisses swallowing him alive. "Tell me…" She moans, gruff whispers closer to a desperate plea than to a direct order, begging for him to turn her into his own private angel. "Tell me…" She insists heatedly, statuesque thighs straddling him, fingernails raking across the corded muscles of his neck, and down to the sun kissed skin exposed through his unbuttoned shirt. "Tell me what you want, and I'll give it to you…" Her indecent promise erupts at last, a docile surrender that she offers to no one but him.

He seethes a loud hiss when her sumptuous hips start grinding on his lap, dancing with the sinful skill of an exotic dancer, her womanhood teasing the rock-hard bulge already jutting through his tight trousers as she pants heavily into his mouth.

"Anything?" He asks with debauched confidence, a sly smile pressed against her bobbing throat, clutching a fistful of her hair and pulling with masterful self-control, making her walk that deliciously fine line between pleasure and pain as she bows to him.

"Y-Yes…" She whimpers pitifully, not even knowing, or caring, about who's in charge anymore, but loving every second of this, of him, of them, of these smoldering flames of rapture that will keep burning until Doomsday itself.

He shows her clemency at last, a magnanimous Saiyan Prince taking pity on his favorite pet, the woman who walks through life with the class of an Empress, but who knows just how to make her man feel like a King, giving herself to her dangerous Master with breathtaking obedience, even if she's the one laying down the law within the dark depths of his heart.

"I want to see my wife on her knees…" He commands against her mouth, a strong hand releasing the forceful grip on her hair, only to wrap itself around that swanlike neck, while his other hand finds the swell of her back, drawing long, slow circles on her voluptuous bottom as he waits for his little cherry bomb to comply.

The car keeps moving, sliding sinuously into a night of neon lights and entrancing music, the snappy tune resounding in Vegeta's ears while he runs a depraved thumb across his woman's lopsided smirk, because he can't wait, he just can't wait to see that pretty red lipstick of hers smeared all over his cock as she takes him, all of him, right into her insolent little mouth.

"Oh?" Bulma asks in pretend surprise, one feminine eyebrow challenging him coquettishly. "Is that all?" She dismisses him, not once breaking eye contact with him when her hands boldly begin to unbuckle his pants, undoing the metallic zipper unhurriedly and setting him free from his painful confinement, impatient fingers curling around the impressive flesh waiting unashamedly for her to bring him satisfaction.

Her mouth floods instantly, prolonging his sweet, sweet torture just a tiny bit longer as they indulge in yet another ardent kiss, unrelenting lips crushing against his, thighs clenching around his muscular legs in anticipation, feeling the thick tip of his manhood already dripping with desire.

"And what about him?" She whispers capriciously, pointing not-so-subtly with her head to the peeping Tom who's been getting a good eyeful of her now fully exposed ass cheeks for far too long, letting her jealous husband know that she knows, that she's let the sneaky underling spy on them as much as he has. "Should we let him watch? Uh?" She offers, a vulgar roll of her hips emphasizing her exhibitionist proposal. "Maybe he'd enjoy the show… Maybe he'd…"

"Over my dead body…" Vegeta's menacing murmur sharply cuts her off, reaching for the car's door and rolling up the partition with not a second thought.

It's one thing to take some perverse pleasure of his own in showing off his most prized trophy to that good-for-nothing fool, but he'll be damned if he'll ever give the bastard the privilege to see Bulma Briefs on her knees.

"That's my boy…" Bulma hums in approval, rewarding her husband's protective zealousness with a playful nip on the lips...

*** Censored bits! ***

By the time she carefully frees his softening member from the luxurious confines of her mouth, her Dark Prince in done for, a crumbling figure carelessly splayed on black leather, not even trying to hide anymore the liberating truth that she holds him, body and soul, in the palm of her small hand. A power beyond compare that was once his greatest fear, utterly terrified of belonging, of binding himself to another living creature, wasted years fighting a futile battle against the woman he'd fallen in love with, long before his heart even knew what love truly was.

But, if his Bulma holds supreme control over his every emotion, then so does he, the power to stop time dead in its tracks with a single look, his glance serene, unguarded, falling on the gorgeous little female still kneeling on the floor with the most devastating smile gracing those ruby lips, looking mighty proud of herself and her ability to bring the divine Prince of All Saiyans down to his knees with such terrifying ease.

Her naïve vanity should infuriate him, yet it doesn't, amusing him to no end instead as he struggles to compose himself, tucking his sated manhood back in his pants before attentively reaching down to her, lifting her off the ground with utmost care.

She's light as a breeze as he settles her into his lap, right where she belongs, his lethargic fingers gingerly moving those feathery bangs away from her face, admiring the dazzling aftermath of her efforts to bring him such bliss.

If Vegeta weren't well aware of his woman's larger-than-life status on Earth, wealthier than Royalty itself, he could have easily believed those oceanic eyes, deliciously surrounded by smudged jet-black mascara, to belong to a woman of the night, a corrupted concubine well-versed in the arts of sensuality, capable of ruining the insignificant life of any given man with the mere curl of an immoral finger.

But, as she curls up against him like a needy brat, humming in sheer contentment into the rich silk of his shirt when he puts his arms around her, he knows, he knows that Bulma Briefs is no one's harlot but her husband's, and that he's the only one, the only man ever granted the vast honor to touch every beautiful piece of her.

Against all odds, they make it to their mysterious destination in one piece, the polished soles of her extravagant shoes fiercely attacking the humid asphalt as she exits the car with Vegeta's gentlemanly assistance, leaving behind a trail of splashed red wine, and handprints and footprints all over the vehicle's tinted glass.

He can almost swear to have seen a camera flashing, one of those lowlife paparazzi, imprudent enough to chase and hunt his renowned wife, stupidly forgetting just how ridiculously powerful her tentacles really are, ferociously protective of her man's natural need for privacy, even from her own well-deserved fame.

Under different circumstances, such rotten scoundrel would have made his blood boil with rage but, tonight, he easily dismisses them from his clouded mind, already inundated by the little firecracker walking by his side with womanly determination, taking a hold of his hand, and brazenly resting it on her curvy hip, daring, daring them all to take a good picture, ready and willing to set fire to whoever dares to sabotage hers or her man's reputation.

Vegeta's domineering hand tightens instinctively around her as he gives their foreign surroundings an astute glance over, cleverly concluding that, though he's pretty sure his woman has never taken him to this particular location, the dark alley, and surreptitious door, mean that the shrewd minx has chosen the backdoor entrance to access the self-indulgent adventure awaiting them both.

The scent of pure decadence overwhelms his Saiyan senses when Bulma opens the heavy door herself, reds and purples illuminating the semi-nude figures of the numerous cheap tramps dancing all over the joint, artificial bodies bouncing to the sounds of the loud music blasting, feeding the starved eyes of a crowd of faceless chumps, drunkenly puffing on their foul-smelling cigarettes and throwing their hard-earned cash their way.

It most definitely looks, and feels, like the kind of underground dump that a woman of quality like his wife should never ever set one foot into, and yet, here she is, the shadow of a sly smirk crowning her face as she keeps walking, splendid hips flowing under his firm hand, utterly unperturbed by the degenerate trash violating his every sense, even going as far as imitating his possessive moves, binding his compact waist with a playful arm, and stubbornly refusing to set him loose, not even when she halts her steps in front of the recondite door towering before them in the most secluded spot in the club.

A tall, unidentified man is already expecting them stoically in the dark, the imposing figure opening the illicit gate behind him with not one word, revealing himself to be another peon, just one more piece in Bulma's wicked plan, that irresistible game of attraction that Vegeta couldn't stop playing even if he tried.

The captivated couple penetrate the recondite corners of their last destination for the night, the thick door closing resolutely at their heels, laying bare a private chamber reeking of hot sex and foreign pheromones, cheap tuberose perfume and old tobacco ashes, overflown with the unspoken promise of the well-kept secrets protected within those four, velvet-carpeted walls.

And it's then that he understands, it's then, as his wife lets go of him, slowly pacing the room with the smoothness of a rose leaf, and showing to know the place like the palm of her hand when she stands behind the mahogany bar top, reaching down for a sealed bottle of premium Scotch, that this whole charade proves itself to have been meticulously planned, down to the last detail, by a woman who doesn't even belong here.

His Bulma is, undeniably, the most beautiful outsider he's ever set his crooked eyes on, a living gift of peaches and cream skin, carefully wrapped in the minuscule fabric of her little black dress.

But, as she pours her man a drink with superb prowess, the edge of her tongue licking the tempting vestiges of high-priced lipstick still adorning her lips, Vegeta can't help but gawk like a helpless fool at the extraordinary metamorphosis unfolding just for him, the one turning the most exquisite of women into an irreverent mistress, his personal little slave to ravish and possess as he damn well pleases.

The curtain rises, and the final act commences when the bottom of a filled glass touches the palm of his hand, Bulma's own drink left behind, virtually untouched, as she walks past him, knocking him cold with little more than an alluring glance and a light hand delicately brushing his shoulder.

And then Mayhem ensues, pure, unadulterated chaos, a tornado of waving hips and roaring music tearing his world apart when his lover hits the stage, working that plated pole like a treat, a Burlesque Queen giving her all for her rapacious Master.

And he tries, oh Gods how he tries, fighting to remain collected, unstirred by the seductive hurricane breaking him down, piece by agonizing piece, an elbow leaning on the bar top with false indifference, and his face high-and-mighty, a silent mask of arrogance sipping casually on overpriced booze, doing all he can to ignore the shameful protrusion hardening in his pants.

But she's all creamy thighs and buxom breasts, perfect legs coiling around the silvery beam as she spins around, flashing every part of her exuberant anatomy, scantily covered by that goddammed shred of fabric, making him lose whatever ounce of dignity is left inside his black soul with every indecent twirl of that flawless figure.

The raging sound of broken glass gets lost into the piercing music surrounding them, his empty glass smashed against the wall, liquor-soaked ice cubes dripping through his tense fingers as he grabs her by the waist and throws her unforgivingly right into the lap dance divan.

And she giggles, bursting into glorious laughter when he finally rips off her vulgar garment, the triumphant noise slicing him in half as he crawls atop her like the most lethal hunter, his impatient tongue grazing his own parched lips, a merciless knee sinking between her fidgety legs, spreading them wide open while he pins those naughty hands above her head, making damn sure that his rebellious little prey won't stand a chance against him this time around.

*** Censored bits! ***

The break of day finds them carelessly spread out on one of the frazzled divans, exhausted bodies tangled in a sated embrace, and a very naked Saiyan Prince holding onto the little ball of warm silk drowsily curled up against him, her petite figure drowning in the oversized shirt that her husband has so caringly dressed her in in her sleep.

He smiles softly into her damp hair, reveling in the distinctive fragrance always enveloping his Bulma whenever he possessively imprints his own masculine scent all over her, all of it as he enjoys her sleepy mumbles, whispery, incoherent words related to yet another one of her intriguing proposals, this time about something having to do with taking their little girl away from the city during the Summer, making good use of the luxurious Holiday Home that she built especially for him, precisely designed for him and his Saiyan brother to let loose during their vicious sparring sessions.

As always, it sounds like an immensely attractive plan and, as his fatigued arms tighten around his small woman, weary eyes closing sluggishly now that the erotic cabaret is shutting down and the loud music has stopped, giving them at last a much-needed respite, Vegeta can't help but to allow himself one more indulgence for the night.

He steps into the land of dreams, fantasizing with his wife lazily lounging by their crystalline pool in a wide assortment of tight shorts and revealing swimsuits, hot Summer evenings and sleepless nights, brimming with abundantly succulent meals and ice-cold drinks. And humid, rumpled bedsheets poorly sheltering their bodies as he takes his time touching and exploring her, embarking on that everlasting quest to unravel the dazzling enigma that is Bulma Briefs, trying to find the golden answer to his prohibited questions in her every curve and carnal plane, striving to conquer all of those beautifully intricate details that make his woman the inimitable creature that he knows her to be.

All of her.

I regret nothing.

Happy (very late and naughty) Valentine's Day!

And thank you for reading, as always!