Dragon Ball/Z/GT Fan Fiction ❯ VeNdEtTa Of ThE hEaRt ❯ Chapter 2 ( Chapter 2 )

Passion's Lecherous Ways...

"Vegeta," Bulma mumbled thoughtfully.

"Aye," Vegeta assured. "Vegeta Ouji."

`Ouji,' Bulma's mind repeated.

The name held a familiarity to it, though she couldn't place it to any constructive thought or event. Glancing at the man before her, she gave him an inspective glance, hoping that perhaps his image would strike some kind of a memory, but to no avail. Her mind failed her, leaving her in the dark of uncertainty of who the man was. She ultimately figured that he was just a relative of her beloved Yamcha, and so dismissed her configuring thoughts.

"Yes, well, Mr. Ouji," Bulma said haughtily, "I never agreed to dancing with you, first of all."

Allowing a momentary pause, she continued in a more lady like tone, "Secondly, I believe dinner will be served. Please take your seat."

"I'd rather you refer to me as Vegeta," he informed, ignoring her previous snobbish words.

"As I prefer otherwise."

"Why so formal," Vegeta pressed, "Does it excite you," he implored further.

"Quite the opposite, Mr. Ouji," Bulma chided, flustered by the way he manipulated her words into conversation lining impulsive flirting.

"You, my angel, are too tense," he whispered, the rumble of his deep voice close to an erotic purr.

"I- no," Bulma stammered at her great discomfort.

"Neglected, perhaps?" Vegeta suggested. "I could change that," he murmured loftily, his breath tickling her ear.

She hadn't even realized he was that close, until she had felt his body press against hers, as he slowly walked past her. Now, she was sure of at least one thing, he wasn't overweight. Although the caress of his flesh was short lived, she vividly recalled the ripple of muscles that grated against her body as he passed. Not even the layers of clothes that separated their naked flesh from touching could leave Bulma to imagine what she felt. The well-defined muscles protruded in her mind, just as they shaped the expensive material he had clothed himself in. As his touch vanished, she remained immobile, reminiscing in the light tingles that still slithered down her spine.

Once finding her own footing, she made her way to her seat, which, obviously, was next to her husband. As she approached, Yamcha stood readily, and pulled the chair out for her to sit in. She did so, a smile curving her full-lips, as she met her lover's gaze. Whether or not she was young, it did not matter, for she knew who she loved, and he sat besides her now, and forever on.

But what of whom she desired?

The thought made her stomach churn. Such thoughts were forbidden to a married woman, she would have to accept that. Though as of yet, she truthfully hadn't. Thoughts were simple and evoked by emotions, it didn't mean she had to act on them. After much debate, she decided all thoughts were rubbish, and had no real effect on her, or her decisions. Besides, she would think as she pleased. Married, or not. With her new resolve in place, she lifted her dining utensils, fancifully (Yes, it's a word) pecking at her food, eating whatever appealed to her more. The notion made her ponder on peculiar thoughts, such as, if she did the same with men. Did she choose what was more appealing within the moment? Or was there more thought contributed to a decision as that?

She figured there was.

Though, what of men? Truthfully she doubted they had any logical thoughts to begin with. Her expression turned pensive as she continued to eat, her thoughts wandering to petty things that disturbed her. Such as, how double standards were set between men and women. If a man had kissed a woman on the first date, he was congratulated, while if a woman did the same, she would be considered a classic whore. Finally tiring of her own train of thought, Bulma turned her gaze to her husband. His imploring eyes studied her, the dark brown pools softening as she looked into them. She smiled softly, as he offered her a reassuring grin.

"Bulma-babe, what's up?"

"Oh, nothing of importance, Yamcha."

"You sure," he asked, looking genuinely concerned.

"Yes, yes," she assured flippantly, though her tone soft.

"I know exactly how you feel," he piped joyfully.

"You do," her inquiry skeptical.

"I'm anxious for tonight as well," he confessed, his voice low and seductive.

`Nope, no logical thought to be found,' Bulma concluded, as he confided his dirty little secret.

"Yes, a good nights rest does sound appealing," Bulma sighed.

"You don't have to be modest, Bulma-babe," Yamcha squealed. "I'm the only one who can hear."

"I'm serious, Yamcha," she mumbled, a yawn contorting her face. "I'm exhausted."

"Wha- Bulma, we," he choked on his words, "but."

"We have a lifetime together, Yamcha," Bulma scolded. "Don't be so hasty."

Yamcha gulped at her words, a lifetime seemed so, so long.

"This is our wedding night," Yamcha pleaded.

"Did you only marry me for the damn sex," Bulma snarled lowly, making effort to have only Yamcha hear her words.

"No," he wailed incredulously.

"Sometimes I wonder," she spat.

"Oh Bulma-babe," he mused. "You know I love you."

"That's questionable," she scoffed.

"Bulma," he gasped.

"I was only joking," Bulma giggled, her cheeks flushing with amusement.

"Don't scare me like that," Yamcha chided.

"I couldn't resist," she chirped.

He finally joined in her laughter, chuckling joyfully as he watched her in delight.

"Am I too hopeful to believe you were only joking about tonight," Yamcha drawled.

Her azure pools gazed at him thoughtfully for a moment.

"That will be left a secret to be told," Bulma whispered, "by time only."

"Shall we spend our time dancing the night away," Yamcha suggested, hefting himself up from his seat and offering her his hand.

"It is an intriguing proposition," Bulma spoke in a thick English accent.

"Aye, it is milady," Yamcha said, his voice laced like an English courtier, "but it would be no intrigue if it was not you who I was embracing."

Bulma smiled up at him, her eyes glimmering with her youthful love. She gently placed her delicate hand in his own, allowing him to lift her into his arms. As their lips met, her eyes closed, leaving it to her minds eye to form vivid images of erotic fantasy. The feeling of his luscious lips inspired lecherous thoughts that overwhelmed her mind with their realistic feel.

"Ve-ge," Bulma moaned into his lips, never being able to finish her words as his tongue assaulted her mouth.

As soon as his tongue penetrated her lips, it vanished. Bulma's eyes opened lazily from their bliss of pleasure, disconcertedly staring into Yamcha's orbs of dark chocolate, narrowed in suspicion.

"What did you just say," he asked disbelieving.

"I didn't say a damn thing, Yamcha," Bulma chuckled, "Your lips happened to be covering mine."

"But," Yamcha protested in a confused murmur.

"Come on, let's dance," Bulma squealed happily.

`Vegeta? Vegeta!' her mind screamed, how could she think of that bastard? In a romantic moment with her husband no less.

"Okay," Yamcha agreed, clumsily leading Bulma towards the dance floor.

Bulma noticed his distorted steps. Worry started to sweep her mind, causing her to stop mid-step, forcing him to face her.

"Yamcha-chan, are you okay," Bulma questioned softly.

Bulma then realized his gaze wasn't even on her, it was directed else where, and although she didn't want to admit it, it bothered her.

"Y- yeah," he stammered, his voice stricken with an odd emotion. Fear.

Obviously, not convinced with his words, Bulma followed his gaze. She found him staring at... some odd man. He was standing off into the corner, his face hidden with the shadows that bathed his flesh like a cloth of slick velvet. A scowl was evident on the man's face, the prominent shape of his thick lips traced with the thin light that filled the outside patio. Beady eyes glared at them both, though focused on Yamcha's with deadly accuracy. There was no mistaking the fact that the man had his dark eyes set on her husband, and she hadn't the naivety to deny it either.

"Who- who is that Yamcha," Bulma inquired softly, loosing her composure for that second.

"Come on, Bulma, let's get seated at the table," Yamcha urged. "The wedding gifts have yet to be received."

"I want to dance," Bulma protested.

"We don't want to disappoint our quests," he reminded, leading her back to her seat.

"I suppose," she agreed, reluctantly taking her seat.

As soon as she did so, a small line of people formed in front of her. Wide smiles pulled at their lips, filling her with a warm feeling of love. Of course, Goku and Chi Chi were the first, as they approached the newly weds happily.

"Oh, B-chan! I'm so glad you got married," Chi Chi mused, "but your choice is," her voice trailed off, her eyes critically staring at Yamcha.

"Chi Chi," Goku scolded.

Abruptly, laughter ensued, both Chi Chi and Bulma giggling in a fury.

"Hey," Yamcha pouted, a ghost of a smile curving his lips.

"Hey," Bulma responded in greeting, mocking him with a quick wink.

"I don't ever want to witness you guys kiss again," Chi Chi shrieked, her eyes wide as saucers.

"We weren't going to," they both said in unison.

"I know you two are horny dogs, and I'm not about let you guys hurt my virgin eyes," Chi Chi informed.

"But, Chi," Goku mumbled, scratching the back of his head confusedly, "We kinda already DO that- stuff."

A bright flush swept over Chi Chi's face like a veil of silken crimson. An uncertain smile curved her lips, before she turned, promptly scolding Goku with a light slap on the head.

"Sorry, Chi," Goku apologized weakly with a light chuckle.

"Here you go, you two," Chi Chi beamed, handing over a small envelope, "It's a little something that me and Goku raised for you guys to enjoy."

"Oh, Chi," Bulma cried, joy evident in her voice, "You shouldn't have!"

"B-chan, don't give me one of those lame lines! You know you're dieing to see how much you got, and go out and buy that satin dress we saw the other day," Chi Chi interrupted.

"Sometimes, Chi," Bulma growled in mock menace, "I think you know me too well."

"That's always possible," Chi Chi giggled, leading Goku to the dance floor, allowing another couple to approach the couple.

"Thank you," Yamcha said gratefully, as they continued to receive numerous gifts.

"Oh, Tracy, I thought you weren't going to make it," Yamcha exclaimed, as a woman of mid-age approached them.

"I got some time off from work, just for you, Yah-chan," she chimed.

"Yes, well, thank you for coming," Bulma piped.

"No problem,-" the woman drawled, trying to recall her name.

"Bulma," Bulma finished wearily.

"Oh, yes, Bulma! Well, hope you like the gift," Tracy smiled, handing over a small box.

"Sure will," Yamcha mused.

"Yes, yes," Bulma mumbled, "next."

"Bulma," Yamcha chided, "she's a nice girl."

"Of course she is, Yah-chan," Bulma replied mockingly.

Their conversation was cut short, as a looming figure shadowed their bickering forms. They were inclined to believe the being, who'd apparently taken afoot in front of them, was rather intimidating, and with justified origins. Though the sight they were both met with was of contradicting aspects. A lean form, the man had, with broad shoulders and exquisite definition. His height wasn't the least bit impressive, but he still held a good two inches compared to Bulma's length, and despite his stature, he held himself with an ambiguous aura of arrogance. His sculpted body was hidden beneath a lavish bash suit of the most desired material throughout the known world. Unlike when Bulma had first laid eyes upon him, several buttons were left unconnected, revealing the constricting white shirt beneath. Imaginations were left to their own accord, as the material of the undershirt caressed his flesh like a second skin. A great generosity to any prying women's eyes, but a complete atrocity to males that might had been wishing to impress others with their own attributes. For in all honesty, Bulma couldn't degrade his absolute masculine beauty in even spite. Although she was certain of who she beheld, curiosity led her to gaze into deep ebony depths of eternal expanse.

It was him.

"Don't lead me to aspire disturbances in the marriage have already arose," his deep-throated voice ventured, "for a lady such as yourself is better sheltered by bindings of vows. The world holds," he paused, his eyes challenging with thick sensuality, "dangers."

"Do you deem me too weak to meet such standards," she countered.

"Certainly not," he spoke, eyebrows peaking with amusement, "though perhaps my tongue has run off to defenses."

"Against," she implored softly, inquisitive as to what his words were implying.

"Something that I may not be able to resist," was his reply, a smirk dancing along his lips, as he gazed at her intently, his eyes traveling over the soft flesh of her lips.

Bulma's cheeks flushed with color at his bold remark, causing her to turn to her husband. She found him utterly speechless, his face drained of color, leaving the pale white sheet she now inspected, completely bemused. His once bright eyes no longer gleamed; they were but a vacant hollow of missing enthusiasm. What had him so worked up? Surely the short transfer of words between herself and Vegeta were not the cause.

"Yamcha," Bulma probed softly, attempting to bring him out of his peculiar state.

"Are you not pleasured by my presence," Vegeta inquired, directing his seemingly dumbfounded words toward her husband, "dear cousin." He finished in a tone drenched with bitterness, and hidden malice.

Despite the impudent tone of his words, Bulma missed the disguised contempt, simply too concerned for her beloved husband. She stroked his face tenderly, successfully bringing Yamcha back from his delusional affixation.

"V- ve- Vegeta," Yamcha's voice shook. "What are you doing here," Yamcha demanded, completely ignoring Bulma's presence.

"To grant you my best wishes, of course," Vegeta responded as expected of any present guest.

What else would lead any being to a marital ceremony?

"How," Yamcha stammered, before correcting his composure quickly. "What might those wishes be?"

"As expected of any member of the family," Vegeta assured, his face indifferent to any emotions that clawed at his mind.

"Family," Yamcha muttered absently, fear twisting at his stomach with the gruesome reality.

"Am I haste to conclude you have deliberately forgotten my family," Vegeta said, much more as a fact rather than a question, his tone held no resentment, but his eyes flared with warning.

"Y-your," Yamcha's voice caught in his throat at the very thought.

"Father has passed into the next dimension."

"You never told me you had a brother," Bulma interrupted scornfully.

"I don't," Yamcha briefed.

"Well Vegeta said father, so I know I'm not hasty to assume that he speaks of your own," Bulma snarled impatiently.

"I speak of my own father," Vegeta explained, his voice laced was finality.

Yamcha's eyes swam with unadulterated fear, his body froze, flesh crawling with chilling meaning intended by the words just spoken.

"Yamcha," Bulma chided in a whisper, "you're being awfully rude to Vegeta."

Despite her efforts, Vegeta had heard. A thick eyebrow rose at her statement. For if memory served him right, she wasn't exactly an innocent...but honestly, he wouldn't have it any other way. She was impetuous, stubborn, irascible, and completely...intriguing?

"You know him," Yamcha yelped, nearly in hysterics.

"We shared a dance, but what difference does that make?"

`Why hadn't I recognized him earlier, when he had been dancing with my fiance? Wife!', Yamcha's mind screamed, giving him temporary relief from the fear that was slowly drowning him with accumulating self-pity.

"A gift," Vegeta's voice cut in, "from myself."

In his hand lay a delicate envelope, enclosed with a thick, black, seal with intricate engravings. Bulma gladly accepted the object within his outstretched hand, smiling widely. If he had money to spare, then surely whatever lay within the envelope she now held in her hand, was of generous amount.

"And most graciously accepted," Bulma piped sweetly.

"Odd, for you fail to strike me as a humble woman," he taunted.

"Appearances can be deceiving," she countered, eyes narrowing to icy-blue slits of anger.

"I suppose they can," he teased lightly.

"What are you implying," she hissed, although in reality she was intrigued at what other witty comment he had in mind.

"Well, nor do you strike me as lady that has knowledge pertaining to dance."

"Knowledge is obtained, not a self-given attribute," Bulma decreed haughtily.

"Then might you indulge me in a number," Vegeta spoke monotone, but his eyes spoke volumes with their provocative gaze, "I assure you that knowledge may be obtained through the experience."

Bulma's jaw might have dropped had it not been for the stubbornness willing her to maintain her composure while within the insufferable man's presence. How dare he! Though what surprised her even more was the absence of Yamcha's jealousy, along with any disapproval.

`The bastard is trying to manipulate me,' Bulma seethed inwardly at Vegeta. `All so I'll dance with him!'

Resolving that she wouldn't succumb to his devious little scheme, she did what she knew would put the plan at fault. She asked permission, from her husband...

"Yamcha, dear, would you mind if I joined Mr. Ouji in a dance," she questioned, her voice coaxed into a sugary sweet tone.

"No, you may do so."

This time, Bulma's jaw did drop, openly revealing her surprise. He didn't even pause! Before she could make any more a fool of herself, a large hand emerged in her vision. It's exquisite slender digits and tawny flesh opened in an inviting gesture. As she placed her own delicate hand within his, she eyed the contrast of her pale flesh enraptured by the tawny-olive form of his hand. Despite the obvious differences, the touch companied by his grasp sent sensations gliding throughout her body, the simplistic motion as his hand clasped her own oddly more than its usual pretenses. He led her from her seat to the dance floor, immediately bringing her within his securing embrace.

As Yamcha watched his wife be entranced by his mortal enemy, he couldn't help but groan in stifled pain. Chemistry existed between the two, this was evident by the very sight of them together, but Yamcha would never know how deep it ran, and honestly, he was content with that. Though if this small amount of closeness between his wife and Vegeta granted him the momentary absence of the man, he would have to accept that. If his own skin could be saved, then he could survive the everlasting moments of their dance.

"How did he find me," Yamcha pleaded, searching for unanswered questions within himself.