He reached down and took her hands, placing them against the smooth, painted wall of the bedroom. And then began unfastening her pants.
She struggled for a frightened moment, pulling her hands away, but he simply placed them back on the wall and finished unzipping her baggy black jeans. “Stop fighting it, Summer,” he whispered. “You know what you want. You’ve wanted it since you first saw me. You’ve wanted it for years before. Stop fighting.”
She said nothing, the tension running through her body as he slid his fingers inside the band of her panties. He wasn’t sure what he would have done if she’d said no. But she didn’t. She shivered in his arms as his hand slid down between her legs, and she leaned back against him. Tense. Pliant.
She wasn’t going to run, and holding her against him was now more of an embrace than a prison. If she was thinking at all she’d know how hard he was, pressed up against her butt, but she probably wasn’t thinking about anything but his hand, his fingers, touching her.
“I knew you’d be wet,” he whispered, and gave in to temptation, biting her ear. She quivered. “Now I want you to spread you legs for me. Just a little bit. That’s right,” he crooned in her ear. “That’s perfect. You’re perfect. Beautiful.” He kissed the side of her neck, because he couldn’t help it. He wanted his fingers inside her, wanted his cock inside her, but he couldn’t have what he wanted. If he turned her, yanked off her pants and pushed her down on the floor he wouldn’t stop, and this had to be for her and her alone.
He slid his fingers over her clitoris, and a quick, sweet spasm racked her body. This was going to be even easier than he’d thought. “Yes,” he whispered against her skin. “You like that, I know you do. And you want more, don’t you? Such sweet, wicked pleasure. Let me give this to you. No one’s going to know, just you and me.” He pressed her forward, so that her head rested against the wall, her hands splayed out, and it was all he could do to keep from thrusting against her, rubbing his iron-hard, aching cock against her sweet butt. For her, he reminded himself. Only for her.
She was panting now, shaking, ready to explode, and if he were a good man he would have given it to her then. But he wasn’t a good man, and the longer the tension built the more powerful her climax would be. He wanted her weeping, helpless, lost in the response he was drawing from her body.
“Next time it will be my cock,” he breathed against her ear. “Inside you, filling you, coming inside you. So hard you can’t think, all you can do is feel. It’s what you want, what you need. But not this time. This time is just for you.”
She was shaking all over, covered in sweat, and he knew he couldn’t hold out much longer. And then she said the first word she’d spoken since he’d opened her shirt.
“Please…” Her voice was a raw whisper of pain.
“Please what?”
She was ready, so ready, and he couldn’t believe she had any fight left in her.
“Please…don’t…”
His body froze, so close to her release. He couldn’t let go, he couldn’t.
&
nbsp; “Please…don’t…stop.” Her words were a muffled plea, and they were the last barrier. He pushed her over the edge, feeling her shatter in his arms, her long, keening wail of total surrender smashing his last bit of control. He managed to hold her, climax after climax shuddering through her body, until he knew she couldn’t stand anymore, and he took his hand away.
He’d finally made her cry. He should have held her. Should have turned her in his arms and held her as she wept.
But he couldn’t. Instead he let her sink slowly down onto the carpeted floor of the bedroom, a tangle of arms and legs and pain, and he left her there, walking away.
He shut the bathroom door, staring at himself in the mirror. The King of Death, the Great Seducer. He looked as if he’d been kicked in the head.
He’d been so caught up in her body, her reactions, in prolonging her endless orgasm that he’d paid no attention to his own body. For the first time in his life he’d climaxed without anyone touching him, without him even being aware of what was happening. He was wet, and he stripped out of his pants in fury and disgust. Not at the mess. At his own weakness. He had no idea how it had happened, how he’d managed to lose control when he never, ever lost it.
But somehow she’d managed to break through every last defense he had, and when she’d climaxed in long, shuddering waves, he had, too.
For an endless moment Summer lay curled up on the floor, holding herself, as her body slowly settled back into some semblance of normalcy. She’d stopped crying, wiping the tears from her face in fury. The first thing she needed to do was regain control of her traitorous body. Then she could work on her mind.
The bathroom door opened and he came back into the room, dressed in different clothes, his shirt buttoned, the leather jacket in place. “We’re leaving in half an hour. If you want to take a shower you’d better do it now.” His voice was flat, cool. The voice of a stranger.
She’d managed to pull herself to a sitting position, leaning against the wall, but hadn’t fixed her clothing. “Where are we going?” Although the words were familiar, the body she inhabited, the feelings she felt, were foreign.
“To get the Hayashi Urn, so I can complete my assignment. Don’t look at me like that. You know you’re a job. You were easier than I expected, but in the end it doesn’t make any difference. Everyone’s expendable, even your sister.”
“My sister?” she echoed through a blind haze of pain.
“The Shirosama has her, and he’ll be able to find out what he wants from her very quickly. And not as pleasantly as I did. We need to get to the urn before he does.”
“No…” Summer protested, but he simply moved forward, grabbed her arm and hauled her to her feet. “She doesn’t know anything.”
“The Shirosama won’t believe that until there’s nothing left of her to prove it. You can take a shower and try to wash away what just happened, or you can go like that,” he said. “Either way, we’re leaving in another twenty-seven minutes.”
“How do I know you’ll help her? What if I refuse to go with you?”