CHAPTER NINE #4
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.
The images of the boy began, hazy and hurtful, but he closed his eyes and shut them out.
Instead, he saw his grandfather, cruel and satisfied.
He saw the various faces of his guards. He saw the monk, the last great evil he had been with, a captor who had toyed with his mind, at times his best friend, at other times, his worst enemy.
His gut churned with sick dismay now. The desire started to recede. Afraid he’d have a flashback, Ian got up and started to dress, but he was thoughtful.
He’d used Sam Rose for sex and she’d used him in return.
He was accustomed to using women. He hadn’t met a woman yet who wouldn’t do whatever he wished in return for sex.
It wasn’t conscious on their parts. It was the power given by the gods, making sexual persuasion a form of hypnosis, making the sexual desire impossible to resist. He’d used Becca ruthlessly to get into the vault and scout it out, so he could then steal the page.
Sam Rose was very powerful. And she was smart. But she was starting to feel sorry for him.
And she had access to the file.
He pulled on a T-shirt. He hated her suspecting his secrets. He hated her compassion. He was almost certain he’d seen pity in her eyes a moment ago, as he had in Nick’s office. He’d seen concern, too.
She’d meant to play him last night by showing him that tape. He smiled. But he hadn’t been played, not by a long shot.
Why not let her feel sorry for him?
Could Sam Rose be manipulated into giving him that file?
He tensed. The last thing he wanted was involvement of any kind. Besides, he was incapable of even the most basic and casual relationships. He had no friends.
He should stay away from her—but he knew that was impossible. He remained too agitated with arousal, even now. And he was accustomed to taking what he wanted, when he wanted it, especially when it came to sex.
He simply wasn’t certain she could be manipulated just with sex.
But he could damn well try.