She made a muffled sound, of need, of protest, as he started to pull the thong down, and he simply broke the thin lace straps so that he could use his mouth on her.
Her hands were on his shoulders, her fingers digging in, and he wasn’t sure whether she was trying to push him away or pull him closer. It didn’t matter. He loved going down on women—it was his second favorite thing in the world to do, and with each touch, each lick, each tiny bite she quivered in shocked arousal. She was saying something, but he decided not to listen. It wouldn’t make sense, anyway, and he slid his hands up her body, pushing the yukata off as he felt her first tiny climax.
He wanted more. He slid his fingers inside her, and she moaned. He couldn’t believe how tight she was, tight and wet, and then he stopped thinking as he felt her shatter, her breath coming in deep, gasping gulps as her body arched.
He rose, lifting her, pressing her against the wall, pulling her legs around his hips, so damned ready for her, and he wanted to slam into her, hard, but he held back, controlling himself. He started to pushed inside her, just a little bit, into the tight wet heat of her, slowly, then pulled out again, so that she made a little mewling cry of need, and then he went deeper, a shallow, taunting rhythm just to drive every thought, every memory, out of her mind, just to drive himself crazy.
He went deeper with each thrust, getting her used to him, and she dropped her head against his shoulder. He could feel the wetness of her tears, the trembling of her body, and it wasn’t enough. He had to bring her all the way there, with nothing held back, and he thrust into her, completely, and she let out a small cry that sounded like pain.
He froze, ready to pull out, but she clutched him even tighter. “Don’t stop,” she whispered. “Don’t stop.”
And then there was no way he could have. His body took over, slamming into her. With each thrust she tightened around him, and when the climax hit her it brought him along with it, and he pulled out, quickly, still holding her against the wall as the orgasm ripped through her body. It should have been enough, but he was greedy, and he put his hand between her legs, touching her, and she slammed her face against his shoulder, muffling her scream.
He made it last. Long enough that all conscious thought had left her, and she was animal, elemental and his. He turned her from the wall and pushed her down on the bed, following her, and he was still hard, or maybe he was hard again; he’d been too busy paying attention to her to even notice whether his erection had ever faded. It only mattered that he was hard and he still wanted her, and when he pushed her back and moved between her legs she arched her hips, her hands reaching out for him, to pull him into her, deep and tight, and she climaxed again when he filled her.
This time he could keep it up forever—she needed oblivion and she was right, he knew how to give it. He could last all night long if she needed it, and even if his cock gave out he could still make her come from a dozen other ways. He didn’t want her thi
nking, feeling, anything but him, inside her.
By the time she fell asleep there wasn’t a space on her body that he hadn’t touched. She lay sprawled on the bed, in a deep, dreamless sleep, and he lay beside her, watching her, as the sun rose over the Tokyo skyscrapers. Watched her as he felt something inside him knot. Dread, and longing, and something he refused to even think about.
There was a smear of blood on the bed, and he stared at it. There was no such thing as a twenty-year-old virgin—maybe she was just coming off her period. He wasn’t squeamish about such things, but that wouldn’t explain her initial pain, or her unexpected tightness.
Shit. It was impossible. When he’d kissed her, back at his apartment, she hadn’t responded, but he’d thought that was because he’d been goading her. Maybe she really didn’t know how.
He pushed off the bed. She’d sleep for hours now, the nightmares chased away for the time being. And maybe his nightmare was just beginning.
The sun was beating against her eyelids, determined to wake her, and she didn’t want to move. Her entire body hurt, and yet for once she was lying on a real mattress, not on a thin futon or in a plastic capsule. She stretched, and every muscle, every joint, felt achy in a deliciously decadent way she’d never felt before.
And then memory came flooding back with a horrifying swiftness. Reno’s apartment. The gun. The dead man.
After that she couldn’t remember anything until she woke up in bed in the middle of the night and Reno came in….
The whimper came from her own throat as she sat up. There was no sign of him. Her clothes were scattered all over the bedroom, but there was no way in hell she was going to touch them. She dove for the yukata that lay in a pile in a corner, and she remembered what he’d been doing when he stripped it off her. Oh, God.
The bathroom door was open, but it was empty. She could smell shampoo and water—he must have just left. She rose on unsteady feet, moving toward the window to look at the view of Tokyo. There were snow flurries dancing around the window, and far below the thick pack of pedestrians were bundled against the cold. She leaned her forehead against the window and closed her eyes.
She was a heartless, shallow, miserable excuse for a human being. Not because she’d killed a man. But because right now she was much more horrified about what she’d done with Reno in that huge bed.
When she finally moved, the snow was coming down more heavily. There was a clock beside the bed—the tumbled, messed-up bed. It was early afternoon, and Reno had disappeared. Which at this point was a good thing.
There was a pile of clothes on the sofa. He’d clearly thought better of the Gothic-Lolita look, and he’d somehow managed to find loose silk pants and a silk shirt and camisole. And a goddamn thong. She moaned again at the memory.
No bra, but she’d have to make do—she’d left hers in Reno’s apartment, and either he hadn’t been able to find one in her size or he’d chosen not to. She opened the yukata to look at her breasts. There was a bite mark on one, and chafe marks from his skin. Against hers. In that bed.
She grabbed the clothes and practically ran for the bathroom, cursing herself up and down. Had she gone out of her mind? Why couldn’t she be like a normal female, with a reasonable amount of experience? She’d tried, with Duke, but she could see by the stain on the sheet that he hadn’t quite succeeded. Reno had.
She took as long in the shower as she could, scrubbing every inch of her body. Trying to ignore the fact that he’d used the soap on his body. On the parts of his body that had been inside her body. Again and again. And again.
She hurt. She didn’t remember making any protest, but a hot, soaking bath would have made her more comfortable. By the time she turned off the shower her skin was pink from scrubbing. At least the silk pants were loose-fitting—tight jeans would have been an agony she didn’t want to think about.
She was just getting ready to leave the bathroom when she smelled the coffee, and for the first time in her life the smell of coffee made her sick. In this hermetically sealed modern building the only way the smell of coffee would reach her would be if someone had brought it into the suite.
She had to face him sooner or later. She looked at her reflection in the mirror. Her short hair was damp and curling slightly around her face. She looked at her mouth, and an even more awful memory came back to her. With all the things he did to her, all the things she’d willingly participated in, he’d never kissed her. Not once.
It was enough of a shock to give her the courage to face him. She walked out of the bathroom, to see him lounging on the sofa, a paper cup of Star-bucks in his hand, a second one on the table.
He lifted his head, looking at her, and there was something about his cool, lazy expression that warned her things were about to get a lot worse.