She was in shock, and he knew people could die from shock. But the last thing he was going to do was take her to a hospital; there'd be too many questions, not enough answers. And if they decided to keep her there, he wouldn't be able to protect her.
But he had to do something. The blank-faced, eerie silence was making him crazy. He wasn't stupid enough to feel guilty that he hadn't been able to protect her—he'd done his best, and if she hadn't capped the man, they'd both be dead. She'd get over it. As soon as he found her a safe place to crash.
Jilly supposed
she was cold. Her hands felt numb, her legs and knees were icy, but it didn't seem to matter. She didn't know where she was, but that didn't matter, either. As long as she kept hold of Reno, she didn't have to think. She could stay in the safe place she'd found, where nothing could touch her, nothing could intrude on the peaceful cloud she'd enveloped herself in.
The cold was nagging at her, pulling at her short skirt, trying to drag her back into the present, and that was the one place she refused to go.
He put his arm around her, only it wasn't the iron grip he usually used. He must have known she'd given up. She wasn't going to argue anymore. She was going to do exactly what he wanted her to do. As long as he didn't try to talk to her, she was fine, perfectly fine. Because if she opened her mouth, she'd start screaming, and she didn't think she'd be able to stop.
But everything was safe around her, a bubble of tranquility that nothing could break. And she tucked her arm in Reno's, leaned against him and followed him wherever he led her.
In the end the hotel
was probably a stupid idea, but he couldn't think of anywhere else to take her. He considered a love hotel, just to see if that would jar her out of her blank-faced stare, but most of them were run by the various yakuza families, and it was too great a risk for them to take.
A hotel built for rich Western businessmen was a compromise, and even if word got out that they'd been seen, the security at those hotels was usually excellent. He could be reasonably sure they'd be safe for at least a few hours, probably for a night or more. If anyone tracked them, they'd simply wait for them to emerge from the hotel.
He managed to pick up a baseball cap from one of the street vendors. He put it on backward, the bill hiding the bright red hair as it trailed down inside his jacket. It wasn't much of a disguise, but it would have to do. And they wouldn't be looking for a gaijin Gothic Lolita who was taller than most Japanese men, either. If luck, which had been piss-poor so far, decided to improve they might just be able to buy a little time. Enough time to get in touch with Ojiisan and warn him about Hitomi and Kobayashi.
At least he'd been smart enough to bring the extra passports and credit cards the Committee always provided. Jilly's documentation wasn't as flawless, but he'd had to take what he could get on such short notice from his friend Kyo. He checked in as a Korean American and his girlfriend, and the exquisitely polite staff of the Trans-Pacific Grand Hotel didn't give them a second look. If they did, they probably thought Jilly was so stoned she couldn't walk on her own, but they wisely said nothing, ushering them to a comer room on the thirty-second floor.
Once alone he gently pushed Jilly into a chair and headed for the door, planning on checking out the emergency exits and stairwells in case someone caught up with them. But before his hand was even on the door she was behind him, the same dazed look on her face.
He put his hands on her arms, moving her back to the chair once more. “You need to stay here,” he said patiently, kneeling down and taking off her sneakers. “I have to make sure we have another way out.” He started to move away and she rose again, ready to follow him.
He began to curse. “You know, you're really beginning to annoy me,” he said. “I get it—you're traumatized. But unless you want to get over it you're going to get us both killed. Sit the fuck down and wait for me.”
She sat. When he slipped back inside the hotel room, she was still there, unmoving, her hands clasped lightly in her lap.
He double-locked the door, then pulled the curtains on the winter-dark night. He went straight to the minibar, removed a tiny bottle of Scotch, opened it and poured it down his throat. Then he took another, twisting off the cap and advancing toward her.
“Drink this.”
She ignored him, averting her gaze. He grabbed her chin, rough, and forced her mouth open, pouring the Scotch down her throat.
She started to choke, and for the first time she moved, hitting at him, and the tiny bottle went flying across the room.
“Say something!” he said in a fierce voice. “Holy motherfucker, just say one goddamned thing.”
She closed her eyes, shutting him out. That was the final straw. He caught her arms and hauled her up against him. “You killed a man,” he said. “You didn't have a choice. If you hadn't, he would have killed me and then you and then he would've gone out and killed more people. He was a bad man and he deserved to die and you did the world a service by blowing his fucking head off.”
She blinked at that, her first sign of life, and he shook her, hard. “Would you rather be dead? Maybe you would, if you'd known just how empty you'd feel once you'd done it. And it doesn't get easier. Each death takes a little piece of you, a piece you can never get back. You'll never be the same, Ji-chan, and it won't do you any good to fight it.”
Another blink. He slid his hands up her neck, forcing her to look at him, and frustration and pain boiled over. “Well, if you're not going to talk to me, I may as well take advantage of it,” he said in a savage voice.
He scooped her up, all six feet of her, and carried her into the bedroom, throwing her down on the king-size bed as he stood over her.
“It's up to you, Ji-chan. I'm not going to stop until you tell me no.” And he pulled off his jacket, tossing it on a chair, only to meet her horrified gaze. Staring at the blood that had stained his shirt, blood from the man she'd killed.
And she opened her mouth to scream.
No sound came out. She was frozen, staring at his bloodstained shirt. With a muttered curse he ripped it off, buttons flying across the room. Then he reached for the gun tucked at his waist, and she suddenly moved, trying to scramble away from him, across the wide king-size bed, but he caught her leg and hauled her back.
“It's a gun, Ji-chan,” he said. “You used it to save our lives. It's just a tool.” She was fighting now, kicking at him, beginning to come alive beneath his hard hands. He took her hand in his, placing the gun there, forcing her to hold it. She let out an agonized whimper, the first sound he'd heard from her in hours, as she tried to shove it away.
“You have to accept it. You have to accept what you've done, that you had no choice.” Was he talking to her, or was he talking to himself
?
He was no longer sure. For some reason he had to make her come to terms with what she'd done, because if she couldn't, what hope was there for him?
He wrapped her long fingers around the handle, and suddenly she moved, away from him, clutching the gun. She was pointing it at him, her hands shaking, pointing it at his head.
And she was just freaked enough to kill him, he realized. Her hands were trembling so badly she only had a fifty-fifty chance of hitting him, but he didn't like those odds. If he moved any closer, she'd shoot him.
“Do you want to kill me, Ji-chan?” His voice was low, calm. “I'm your best chance at staying alive, but maybe you don't want to stay alive. Maybe you want to take the coward's way out.”
The gun was still shakily trained on his chest, and he knew it could go off at any minute. She'd managed to get the safety off the first time, in the heat of the moment, she could easily do it again. “Put the gun down,” he said. “Or use it. One or the other.”
She froze. And he moved, onto the bed, crawling toward her, and took the gun out of her hand. He set it on the nightstand, safely within reach. He sat back on his heels, looking at her. Watching her as she tried to retreat back behind the wall of blankness.
“Then well have to try it this way,” he said. “Turn around.”
At first he thought she'd ignore him, but a moment later she turned her back on him, her shoulders hunched over, shutting him out. Giving him a view of her narrow, elegant back, the ridiculously erotic nape of her neck, the zipper that ran the length of the black corset Kyo had brought for her.
She jumped when he put his hands on her, but she didn't move away, and he placed one hand on her shoulder as he began to unzip the corset. He could feel her tremble beneath his touch, but she didn't protest, didn't move.
Another man might have had trouble with the complicated corset, but it came apart easily in his hands, and he tossed it to one side, so that she was sitting with her back to him, in a mound of fluffy skirts and fishnet stockings and nothing on top. And he couldn't help himself—he leaned forward and put his mouth against the nape of her neck.
She shivered. A tiny shimmer of reaction, dancing across her skin. He unhooked the skirt, the two layers of crinoline. She'd been obedient all day—how long would it last? “Take off your skirts, Ji-chan,” he whispered.
For an endless moment he couldn't breathe, waiting for her. And then she rose on her knees, her back still toward him, and pulled the layers of skirts over her head, leaving her in a pair of frilly bloomers and a black lace garter belt holding up her fishnet stockings.
It was his turn to groan. She was supposed to panic, come back to life, fight him. She wasn't supposed to do what he told her, strip off her clothes and wait patiently for him to touch her.
He couldn't do it. He knelt there, looking at her vulnerable back, hard enough to get off just watching her, and he couldn't do it. It wasn't fear of Taka, it wasn't even fear of her thinking it meant more than a fuck, a simple release of tension.
He just couldn't do it to her.
He climbed off the bed and went to the closet, pulling out one of the yukata that came with the room. When he turned back she hadn't moved, and he put the robe over her shoulders, helping her put it on, resisting the impulse to even look at her breasts, because he was hard enough as it was.
She let him tie the belt. “You need to sleep, Ji-chan,” he said, pushing her back gently onto the bed. “Get under the covers.
She was obedient again, sliding beneath the covers. Despite her height she looked very small in the king-size bed.
Her hair was in her face, and he pushed it out of her eyes, gently. She blinked. And then she closed her eyes, shutting him out.
He picked a hell of a time to grow a conscience, he thought as he moved back into the sitting area of the suite. He couldn't remember a time when he needed the release of sex so badly, and whether he liked it or not, he wanted Summer's sister. Had wanted her from the moment he grabbed her in Taka's house. Hell, wanted her since he saw her in Peter Madsen's garden two years ago. And he could have her, right now.
He stripped off the rest of his clothes and stretched out on the sofa. It was too short for his body, but it would have to do. If someone wanted to get to Jilly, they'd have to go through him, and for now he could let himself sleep.
She must have made some kind of sound, because he was just coming awake when she screamed. He moved quickly, on top of her before the second scream could erupt from her throat, covering her mouth with his hand. “Hush, Ji-chan. It will be all right. I promise you.”
She was fighting him, struggling, and he caught her flailing arms and imprisoned them between them. “Calm down. If you scream again, it will bring too much attention.”
She shoved him, pushing him off her, and he let her go, watching her out of hooded eyes as she scrambled off the bed, backing against the wall like a cornered animal, panting with fear.
“Make it stop,” she whispered. “Make it go away.”
He shook his head. “Ji-chan, I don't know how to do that.”
“Yes, you do.” She looked at him through the darkness, and her eyes were glittering with unshed tears. “Make it go away.”
He came off the bed, moving toward her, giving her time to change her mind, to panic, to retreat. But she didn't move, waiting for him.
He hauled her up, pushing her against the wall, and brought his body up against hers, so she'd know exactly what she was asking. “Are you sure?”
She was frantic, her fingers digging into his shoulders, trying to bring him closer. “Make it stop, make it stop, make it—”
He lifted her up, pressing her against the wall, and tore open the yukata. She was still wearing the garters and the bloomers, and he slid his hands up her thighs, flicking the gaiters open with his thumbs. The stockings stayed up anyway. He slid his hands up and tugged at the white cotton bloomers, drawing them down her long legs, only to realize she was wearing a tiny black lace thong.
He was going to kill Kyo. He was going to buy him a case of sake. He sank to his knees in front of her and pressed his mouth against the tiny scrap of fabric as he pulled the bloomers over her feet and tossed them aside. As if she wasn't torment enough, she was a walking sex dream, and his last shred of conscience disappeared.
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 thinking, 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 comer, and she remembered what he'd been doing when he stripped it off her. Oft, 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 Goth-ic-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.