by Brenda Joyce
His gaze skidded back to the screen. He breathed hard. “Come here.”
She usually hated taking orders, but not this time. That harsh command sent desire cascading through her, from her hollow rib cage to her shaky legs. Sam walked slowly over to him, reminding herself that this was what she’d wanted to set in motion. But he was going to squirm—a lot. Not that she wanted a way out. She just wanted him to beg and plead for it.
Sam paused beside the chair where he sat. Before she even looked at the couple on the screen, he seized her wrist. “How many times have ye watched?”
Sam wet her lips, trying to speak, but she couldn’t. His hand was fire on her skin. His face was hard and tight, strained. Sam looked at the monitor and inhaled, her heart thundering, her thighs impossibly tight.
He was rubbing that steel ring over her, everywhere, with his massive and broad length.
He hit the Pause button.
Sam stared at his hand. His knuckles were white. She looked lower, at the huge bulge in his jeans. It had to hurt. But that was okay, because she hurt, too, and she’d been hurting for a while…Then she looked at the screen. “Too bad the cameras were mounted. A zoom shot would have been great,” she said thickly.
He slowly looked up at her. “Oh, I can zoom in.”
She wet her lips. “We’re going to a party.”
“The party’s right here.”
It was hard to remember why she wanted to make him pant for her—why she’d decided to hold out until he did. He caught her hips and pulled her closer, then smiled up at her. For one moment, Sam was certain he was going to move his face against the jersey of her dress, between her thighs, against her sex.
“You can come with me, or I’ll go alone.”
“Threats.” He released her and stood, reaching for the zipper on his jeans. Sam’s heart lurched. He slid his hand over the huge bulge there, watching her, then snagged the zipper. He slowly lowered it, his gaze on her face.
Sam knew she was fixated. She could hear her own heavy, wild heartbeat. She should pretend nonchalance, but she couldn’t look up.
She felt his mouth curve. She knew he smiled, and knew there was amusement, too. His arousal sprang free of the jeans. The steel ring, pierced low on the head there, glinted.
She felt her thighs clench, her knees buckle.
“What’s wrong? Will ye faint?” he taunted.
She was dizzy, she thought, inhaling sharply. He made a soft sound, took her hand and slid it over the shaft, held it there. Sam tried to breathe and failed. The ring lay on the edge of her thumb now.
He caught the hem of her dress. “I’m not leaving this room,” he said. “Neither are ye. Not until I say so.”
It was so hard to speak. It was even harder to think. “I don’t want to go anywhere,” Sam heard herself say thickly. She ran her hand down his entire length. He was silent, throbbing heavily there. Her own body was on the verge of implosion. She wondered if the ring hurt. There was a fine line between pleasure and pain.
Too late, as she pushed up at the ring, making him gasp, she realized she was not the one in control. She was lusting insanely for him now.
“Dinna stop,” he warned, tugging the hem of her dress up her thighs.
She somehow tore her gaze upward.
He smiled arrogantly at her. Triumph was reflected in his eyes.
“Sonuvabitch,” she managed. He had won.
“Did ye really think to play me with a sex tape?” he murmured. “Who’s being played now?”
Sam looked from his gorgeous, hot eyes to his full, slightly open mouth. She cursed. She bent down, gripped him more firmly, and pushed her tongue at the ring. He went still; she cried out. Then she started to taste him, the ring against her tongue.
His entire body trembled and he jerked convulsively. “How many times did ye watch the tape?”
She sucked hard, unable to speak. The ring fluttered against her tongue.
He tightened his grasp. “How many times?”
She choked off a moan. The pressure was building impossibly now. She began to tremble, her cheek pressed against him now, the ring digging into her skin. “Do you really want me to answer—and stop?” she managed hoarsely.
His hand moved to the bottom of her chin, and he forced her to look up at him. “Ye’ll never want a toy again.”
Their gazes locked. His was fierce, triumphant and blinding in its lust. And then he jerked her upright. Sam reached for his shoulders instinctively. She was ready to jump him. It should be the other way around. “Damn you, Maclean,” she said harshly, leaning fully against him.
“But yer ready to die.”
He was right. Sam hooked her calf around his waist. He turned her backward over the desk, began to force her down. Sam wrapped her other leg around him.
“Hang on,” he whispered.
“Bastard,” she said.
He impaled her.
His huge length and width filled her, stunning her almost senseless—except for the crescendo of pleasure that instantly began. Sam cried out. There was so much heat. The pressure was impossible. He laughed, pushed her down on the desk so she was flat on her back, sending objects and papers flying. “I told ye I was the best.”
My God, she thought, he was right. Her mind glazed over as the waves of pleasure crashed and broke. He seized her shoulders, held them down and began moving urgently, into her, hard and deep. Sam felt the ring. It sent her over another precipice and he cried out, too.
He moved harder and faster now, with more urgency, his seed burning. Impossibly, Sam wanted even more, because the rapture was so raw, so intense, so otherworldly. Flying, she raked his back with her nails. He caught her hands to restrain her, growling, still thrusting repeatedly. He lost his balance as he tried to hold her still and Sam hit him with her thigh, her knee in the hollow between his ribs. When he choked in surprise, she drove him off the desk.
They crashed against the near wall and fell hard to the floor.
Maclean actually tried to break the fall for her. As his shoulder struck the floor, he pulled her against his body and on top of it.
Sam pushed a knee on each side of his hips. His eyes widened; he grinned.
She looked down at what reared between them and inhaled harshly. “That has to hurt.”
He seized her wrist, his grasp brutal. “I like pain. Fuck me, Sam.”
She forgot about the ring and the pain it might cause. Sam drove her body down his shaft, hard and fast.
This time, Maclean was the one to break first.
SHE NEVER FELL ASLEEP after sex. But she’d fallen asleep and Sam slowly opened her eyes.
She was on the floor of the living room and she was alone. Pale early-morning sunlight was creeping inside from the two east-facing windows which overlooked Park Avenue. And as a pain went through her lower back, as she sat up, her head throbbing slightly, she saw her broken nails. There was absolute recollection. She was coherent now. She was also stunned.
They’d had sex like it was a matter of life and death. If he wanted her on her knees, she wanted to stand over him; if he was being dominant, which he was most of the time, she had to make him submit to her. She touched her jaw, which was sore. At some point she’d hit it on the edge of a coffee table. The back of her head also ached from slamming against the wall. As for her lower back, well, she’d been on her hands and knees, enjoying it far too immensely. The moment she’d realized, she’d reared up. Man, it hurt.
They’d gone at it wildly, violently, insatiably, for most of the night—if not all of it. She was unusually strong, he had his superpowers, making him even stronger, and they’d exhausted one another by trying to control each other, by trying to overpower the other. Sitting up now, starkly naked, Sam wasn’t sure what to think.
They hadn’t even kissed.
It had been the rawest, most brutal, most urgent sex she’d ever had. Or had that even been sex? She was grim. She had never wanted anyone the way she did Maclean and there was no e
xplanation for it, not when he was such a mess. The arousal was stunning, the urgency more so, and later, she’d try to figure out why she needed him so much when he was so scarred and so defective, and so incapable of normalcy. And damn it, he had won. It hadn’t been the way she’d thought it would be. She’d been out of her mind with desire, as never before. He’d controlled most of the night.
On the other hand, he’d wanted her desperately.
At one point, when they’d stopped for a moment, he’d pulled her back beneath him, the oddest look in his eyes, as if he feared a return to reality.
She hugged herself, the gesture rare for her. She was truly shaken.
Because desperate was the best way to describe Maclean’s passion, his sex drive, the shattering urgency. Pain and pleasure had become wrapped up together in one big ugly package—and it had begun when he was a prisoner. She had no doubt.
Her heart stirred. There was compassion…there was concern.
She recalled the look on his face she’d seen so many times last night. When he was on the brink, his expression became raw and revealing, the mocking facade was stripped away. And the emotions that cycled through him had been obvious—she’d seen anguish, confusion and relief.
Sam cursed uneasily now.
And what about the incredible ecstasy she’d experienced? She thought she felt herself flush. The sonuvabitch had been right. He’d been able to give her more pleasure than she’d ever had. Was that one of those god-given attributes, too? Mortals couldn’t climax a dozen times in one night—almost ceaselessly.
She suddenly pulled her legs to her chest. Why was she even analyzing what had just happened? It was only sex! She avoided intimacy and entanglements like the plague and she never bothered to think about her conquests. Why should she? It was always fun. Easy come, easy go.
But Maclean wasn’t one of her boy toys. Sex with Maclean had been savage and stunning. She couldn’t compare it with any other experience. They hadn’t had fun. They hadn’t kissed. They’d even hurt one another. She’d been satisfied—more than ever before. But she felt an odd nagging, almost like disappointment or dismay. It almost felt as if something had been missing from the experience.
Since she couldn’t possibly be disappointed, since she only wanted sex, she was mistaken.
They’d both gotten what they’d wanted, right?
There was one more thing. What they’d just done was nothing like what was on that DVD.
Sam slowly stood up, unable to shake her sense of unease. The DVD had to be a fake after all, because those two people had cared about one another. As for last night, there was no reason to brood about it or him. If she let herself feel sorry for him, she’d soon be toast on his plate. Burned toast…
Grimly Sam glanced around and saw her dress on the floor, not far from the desk. She recalled Ian ripping it apart and tossing it aside. She got to her feet. She’d known from the get-go that Maclean really was bad news. And that meant she had to stay away from him.
It meant no more hot rounds like this one. It meant there’d never be a DVD from the future.
Hemmer…They’d stood him up. He was probably furious and making all kinds of plans for them.
Sam walked over and picked up the dress; it was literally ripped in half and useless. She did not feel better. Her resolve felt shaky. Staying away from Maclean was impossible—he had the page. She started a search for her purse, which was on the console not far from the sofa where Jan had sat last night. Then she almost smiled. Jan could have never handled Maclean; he’d have been bored to death with her.
She found her cell phone. Then she decided that she couldn’t call Kit again. She didn’t want to have to explain what had happened—not that she really could.
He was a mess and she was confused. She, Sam Rose, a Slayer feared on all the city streets, was confused. She was never confused. She was always on course, climbing whatever mountain stood in her path. If she ever needed a friend, she needed one now. Maybe it was time to test her friendship with Kit.
She shivered. She didn’t have any clothes and Maclean kept the AC on an unapologetically and environmentally unfriendly setting. She glanced at the time on her cell phone. It was half past five; she doubted she’d run into Gerard if she went up to the third floor and tried to find some clothes.
Then she felt his stare.
Slowly, her nape tingling, Sam turned and looked at the doorway.
Maclean stood there in the shadows of the dawn, wearing only his jeans, which weren’t even buttoned, and the cross on the leather cord. He was watching her like a hawk. It was impossible to tell what he was thinking, because his face was expressionless.
Her heart turned over. Sorrow and desire melded…
She didn’t even want to try to make light of the moment.
There was nothing light about having sex like it was war.
He walked forward, his muscles rippling. Now she saw that he carried clothes in his hand. She tensed, almost expecting him to throw them at her, but instead, he handed them to her. “I called ye a car,” he said.
He had a red scratch on his jaw, another one on his shoulder. They were deep and one was still bleeding.
Sam took the clothes. Suddenly modest, she held the bundle in front of her body. Prior to last night, she’d have made a mocking remark about his being eager for her to leave. Instead, she said, “Thanks.”
He shrugged and walked back out.
WHEN SHE WAS GONE, Ian lay back on his bed, still clad in his jeans. He stared up at the ceiling, grim. What had just happened?
His heart was racing uncomfortably. Heated images kept replaying in jagged bits and pieces in his mind, when he never thought about his conquests afterward—not ever. But he wasn’t sure that Sam Rose had been a conquest. He wasn’t sure what had happened earlier that evening. He’d never been to bed with any woman and had such physical and violent sex. He hadn’t ever wanted any woman the way he wanted her.
He touched himself, still aroused. She’d fought to dominate him. He’d fought back. He wasn’t sure who’d won. Maybe he had. She now knew how good he was. But he was sorry he’d let her leave. He could easily take her again.
Why had he taken her so fiercely—why had he been so insatiable? So desperate?
Ian was uneasy, uncertain. He’d been extremely attracted to her from their first meeting. He’d even wandered through time once or twice after that day in Oban, when he avoided leaping like a medieval man avoided the plague. But the attraction was worse now—constant, consuming. He didn’t like having an attraction he could not control or walk away from.
He thought about the DVD, and wondered how two such savage lovers could get to that other place.
His gut tightened so badly it hurt.
He never let women touch him the way she had in the DVD—with tenderness or affection. If a woman smiled at him during sex, the way Sam had in the DVD, he ignored it, pretending not to see.
The constriction of his jeans told him how badly he wanted her again. In fact, thinking about her now was making it worse. He was incredulous and confused. She must have made a helluva impression on him, because once he took a woman, he was done with her. He never wanted a repeat performance. When he returned to a lover, it was always because no new conquest was on the horizon, or the woman was a means to an end, like Becca. Often he simply used women to escape himself. He craved sex night and day and he knew it had everything to do with the sixty-six years of captivity. When he was satisfying himself, there were no memories and he did not have a past.
He was a selfish lover, and he’d been told so a zillion times. He didn’t care. He really didn’t care how a woman felt when she was with him. The gods were vain enough to have made sure to make themselves so virile that their lovers were always pleased effortlessly. He’d been lucky enough to inherit that genetic ability from his great-grandfather, or so he assumed. He never bothered to please his lovers, it simply happened—usually the moment he really got down to the task at hand
of pleasing himself.
But Sam Rose had the kind of face and body that made a man want to touch her. He couldn’t recall ever stroking a lover. When he kissed his lovers, he did so savagely—and he’d avoided kissing Sam.
He stared at the ceiling until the moldings blurred. He hadn’t caressed her, not even once. He’d pounded her—she’d pounded him. He hadn’t kissed her, but he’d felt her skin acutely and been as acutely aware of her mouth. Now he trembled, recalling the one kiss they had shared ouside of the vault. It had been fierce and she had instigated it.
Suddenly he wished he’d kissed her, savagely or not, and touched her, maybe running his hand up and down one incredible leg. He was becoming hotter thinking about it.
What was wrong with him? Why was he lying in bed, hot and bothered, after sex?
He’d never known a woman like her. He could admit that. It went beyond the face and body. It went beyond her ability as a Slayer. He kept coming back to her courage. She had more courage in her pinkie than he had in his entire body. Her courage amazed him, enthralled him. Maybe that was the point of obsession.
Suddenly he hoped he hadn’t hurt her.
Ian launched himself into a sitting position. He was an unfeeling, uncaring man and he knew it. It was all a part of his defective nature. When you were kept prisoner for over six decades, you had damned well better care only about yourself. He didn’t think to change, didn’t want to change, because being heartless was the best means of survival there was. He knew it firsthand.
But he didn’t want to hurt Sam Rose. And what the hell did that mean?
Suddenly he recalled her standing naked in the living room, holding the track suit he’d given her in front of her body, as if shy or modest. She’d almost looked vulnerable…Sam Rose would never be vulnerable. He could not decipher that moment. It had simply been awkward for them both. And that didn’t make any sense, either.
Deliberately, he hadn’t tried to read her mind. He hadn’t wanted to know what she was thinking.
That has to hurt.
I like pain.
He flushed. He was going to reveal the rest of his secrets while in her bed, if he wasn’t careful. He hated pain, but the flashes of pain that ring caused were as necessary to him as breathing.