“Imagine that,” he said dryly.
Why didn’t he button his shirt? Why didn’t he turn away from her, turn that beautiful, treacherous face away?
“The real urn is on the shelf in my closet, along with the kimono and the book of haiku Hana left me.”
He was very still. “She left you a book? What does it say?”
“It’s in kanji. I have no idea—just some handwritten haiku. I kept it because it was hers.”
He nodded, and Summer almost thought she could see him process the information. He was no longer thinking about her, thank God. “And a kimono? What kind?”
“Two kimono,” she corrected him, using the proper plural. “One is very old, a relic. The other is just an ordinary cheap dressing gown. Not important.”
“Everything’s important,” he said absently.
She wasn’t going to fight him. He could take anything he wanted from her, anything Hana gave her, as long as he left her alone.
“Then you can go and get it,” she said brightly, feeling momentarily safe. He’d forgotten all about her. “I’ll give you directions. And you don’t need to worry that I’m lying to you again. This time it’s the truth.”
“I know it is,” he said. “Now take off your shirt. I don’t like you in black.”
She stared at him, uncomprehending. “What? I told you where it was.”
“And I told you that you would tell me. And then you’ll have sex. Take off your shirt.”
12
Summer didn’t move. She sat there, frozen, as if he’d told her to turn into a pumpkin. Poor baby. She had no idea who or what she was up against.
She made one last, pitiful protest. “I don’t want you touching me.”
“Yes,” he said, “you do.”
“I’m going back to my room, locking the door and you’re going to keep the hell away from me. I’ve given you what you want.”
“Not entirely,” he said. “But go ahead and try.”
She did, of course, making it easier for him. He didn’t want to get her on the bed—he’d been nothing but honest when he said she was the only one who was going to have sex. If he got on the bed with her he’d have a harder time keeping himself in check. He could, of course. But it would be much easier this way.
He caught her before she reached the door, hauling her back against his body. She didn’t struggle. He wrapped one arm around her waist, holding her still, and she couldn’t break free, even if she wanted to.
He knew women very well. He even knew this woman, different though she was. She was terrified of sex, terrified of giving herself away—so bound up in her fear that she was unpredictable. He needed to break through that, so he could control her. Simply because he wanted to.
He put his other hand on the front of her shirt and began unbuttoning it as he moved her closer to the wall. She was going to need something to lean against. At this point her arms were at her sides, and she wasn’t fighting him, but that might change. For now she just let him hold her against his body, and he knew she could feel his heat sinking into her.
He pulled the shirt free from her pants, then reached up and covered her breast with his palm. She made a strangled sound in the back of her throat, but her nipple hardened beneath his touch.
He shouldn’t have felt the slick surge of satisfaction—he was never wrong about these things, and he’d known she wanted him. But the physical proof was an added pleasure. The only pleasure he was going to allow himself to take.
She’d changed bras. This one was black, too, but it was skimpier and fastened in the front. He flicked it open, and her sweet, full breasts spilled out.
He would have given anything to turn her in his arms, to put his mouth against her nipple and suck on it, hard. But not now. Not this time.
Her breasts were exquisitely sensitive, and she arched back against him with a muffled sound. “Didn’t he do this for you?” he whispered in her ear. “Didn’t he know what you liked?” He let his thumb brush against her nipple, using just the right amount of pressure, and she moaned, a deep, sexual sound.
“You should have told him,” he murmured. “Most men can’t figure these things out on their own—they need guidance.” He flicked his thumb again, and her groan was deeper this time, and she pressed back against him.
“Hold on to the wall,” he said, but she didn’t seem to hear him. He wished he’d brought her to a mirror—he wanted to see her face when he made her come—but he already knew her well enough to imagine it. He wouldn’t need the proof.