Ice Blue (16 page)

"No, I imagine you don't," he said.

"He brought me presents," she said. "Pretty pink dresses and colored balloons. And he hardly touched me. I just had to… watch him."

"Would you like me to kill your mother?" Taka might have been asking if she wanted milk in her coffee.

It was her turn to be shocked. "She doesn't know."

"Bullshit. She knew what she was doing, leaving you alone with him."

"Well, she's forgotten about it." Summer pulled the shreds of her self-control back around her. "And I told you, it was a long time ago. Hana made sure I was protected, and in turn I protected my little sister. I'm a normal, healthy woman."

"Who dresses in black and white and only had one unsatisfactory lover."

"He wasn't unsatisfactory!"

"If he was any good you would have had others."

"I told you I wasn't looking for love!"

"You told me you weren't looking for sex."

"Not that, either."

"Are you sure of that?" His calm question set off a new wave of reaction, something she couldn't hide.

"Don't do that!" she said, her voice low and fierce.

"Don't do what?"

"Just don't."

He crossed the room, shrugging out of his leather jacket. He still hadn't buttoned his shirt. The complex and beautiful tattoos were hidden. All she could see was his smooth, golden skin.

"Don't do what?" he said again, his voice low. Too close, he was standing too close, and she could feel the heat from his body like a physical touch.

"Don't do this," she said. "Maybe you think I just need sex from a good man to get over my hang-ups, but you're dead wrong."

He almost smiled. "I don't remember offering you sex, Summer. And I'm most definitely not a good man."

She was well past the point of being embarrassed. "That's a relief," she said, trying to sound brisk and practical. "It's not that I really thought you wanted me, but the topic of conversation is a little distracting."

"Oh, I want you," he said casually.

Her heart stopped beating for a long, endless moment. "No," she said. "I don't like you."

"You probably don't. But that doesn't mean you don't want me. I'm trained to be observant. You watch me when you think I'm not looking, you shiver when I touch you. I think right now you're probably terrified. And wet."

Her eyes widened in shock. "You're disgusting."

"Sex isn't for the fastidious. Haven't you learned at least that much from your lone, incompetent lover?"

"You're not having sex with me."

He sighed. "You're right, I'm not. You're the only one who's going to get off."

"Dream on. If you think you can seduce me into telling you where the urn is, you have far too high an opinion of your dubious charms."

This time he did smile, and a wicked light filled his eyes. '"Dubious charms'?" he echoed, amused. "You'll tell me where it is and then you'll have sex. Where is the urn?"

"I'm not going to tell you."

"Of course you are," he said, picking up her hand. She tried to pull away, but he wouldn't release her. "Tell me where the real urn is. I've played around for too long already, and I can't afford to waste any more time. I don't want to hurt you, but you need to tell me where the urn is."

"No."

The pain was sudden, swift and blinding, so sharp that she could barely muffle her instinctive cry and then it was over. He brushed the back of his hand against her face, tenderly; there was no mistaking the regret in his austere, beautiful face. "Don't make me do it again, Summer. People's lives are at stake, and I can't let sentiment get in my way. Where is the urn?"

"I won't—" The words were cut off as she gasped again in pain. Then he released the cruel grip on her wrist, and his fingers were gently stroking the red marks. "Where is the urn, Summer?"

She looked into his calm, implacable eyes. He would do this. He would hurt her until she told him what he wanted to know, whether he wanted to or not.

And more than anything in the world she needed him to take his hands off her. Not the hands that hurt her. The hands that touched and comforted. And she'd do anything, tell him anything, to make him let go of her.

"It's in the Bainbridge house," she said, yanking her hand away. Her wrist was numb, throbbing, and she had no idea what he'd done to her. She only knew he wouldn't have stopped.

"What Bainbridge house? In Washington state? There's no record of you or your mother owning a house up there."

"It's in my grandmother's name. My father's mother. She didn't want Lianne to know she was giving it to me. She didn't trust her."

"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."

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S
ummer 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.

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.

"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.