Blood and Fire (McClouds & Friends #8)(71)

“What if I am?” she asked. “It won’t matter. I’ll be long gone. I already know you’re a cheap, rude, woman-hating bastard, so I won’t expect manners, or gentleness, or clever conversation, or sweet talk.” She leaned closer to breathe the words in his ear. “I’ll be happy with inarticulate grunts. While you f*ck me hard . . . from behind.”

He rocked back, looking almost shocked. “Jesus, lady.”

“Yes, I know,” she crooned. “I’m a very nasty girl tonight.”

This time, he let her hand connect with the denim at his crotch. She almost squealed at what she found there. Big, hot. And rock hard.

“Is that what your husband did with your sister in the pictures?” he asked. “He f*cked her from behind?”

She flinched and looked away, letting her hair fall forward to hide tears she could generate on command. She let the silence stretch out for a minute, sipping her drink as she got her emotions under control.

Sniff. Oh, that perfidious snake of a husband. Oh, that lying, treacherous slut of a sister. They both deserved to die. They really did.

She shook her hair back and took a huge, terrifying risk. “I’ll show you the pictures, if you want,” she said, brushing tears away with her knuckles, so as not to smear her mascara. “They’re in my purse.”

She held her breath, heart thudding, as he considered looking at the sexually explicit photographs that she did not have.

“I’ll pass,” he finally said. “I don’t need that kind of stimulation.”

Tears of relief sprang into her eyes. She sniffed them back, theatrically. “Suit yourself. I don’t need to look at them again, either.”

He looked almost . . . sorry for her. God, she was good. The best.

“Take it or leave it,” she said. “No strings.”

“Women say that a lot,” he replied. “It’s never true.”

“You mean women actually talk to you that often?”

The corner of his mouth curved up. She followed up her advantage, leaning close. “Believe me, big guy,” she whispered. “I don’t even want to know your name. Don’t tell me. I am so not interested.”

They stared into each other’s eyes. He raised his drink. Her hand tightened greedily on his cock as he drained it. She could feel his pulse, a strong, rapid throb in his stiff rod. “Take me home,” she whispered.

His eyes hardened. “I don’t take anybody to my home.”

Course correct. She hid her irritation with a smile. “Better still,” she said smoothly. “The hotel across the highway?”

He nodded and rose to his feet. Up, and up. Mmm. So tall. She got up, too, picturing herself reporting a successful mission and maybe even getting The Call, from King. An invitation to tell him all about it over dinner . . . and then, if he thought she’d been good enough . . .

Thinking about it made her wet, which had the happy effect of making her even hotter for rough, mindless sex with Aaro. A breathless, squirming, sexy feedback loop. She took Aaro’s muscular arm.

Goodness, he was huge. She might have to double dose him, she thought, palpating his bicep. She could administer it in something from the minibar. If not, there was always the vapor. Three squirts, for such a massive man. But not quite yet, though. Oh, no, not yet.

She’d go a few rounds with this one before she brought him down.





16


Bruno ducked und





er the swing of the studded iron ball that swung on Rudy’s mace. There were three Rudys, inexplicably wearing medieval chain mail. The second was armed with an ax, and the third with a broadsword. Bruno jerked back. The broadsword swooshed by his Adam’s apple. He stumbled to the side to avoid the ax, dove to bring down the mace-wielding Rudy.

Then he saw the dais.

Lily was bound to a pole. She wore a long white gown, torn and mud stained. She was blindfolded. Oil-soaked wood was piled around her. Her ragged skirt flapped in the wind. So did her skeins of hair.

Terror tore him open inside. He sprang up to fight, but now there were six Rudys, a mass of suffocating bodies driving him back as one of them sauntered toward Lily, waving a burning branch. He glanced back, his sweaty face split by a mocking grin. Thrust the flame into the fuel.

The wood ignited instantly, flames leaping to lick at Lily’s ragged skirt. Bruno struggled, shoving, punching, howling Lily’s name.

She yelled back, but the sound came from so far away—

The image splintered. Thud, he was on a floor, in the dark. Naked, sweaty. He looked around frantically for his attackers—

Lily was huddled against the wall, naked. Her hands were over her nose. Her eyes were huge. Oh God. What the f*ck had he done?

It took him about six attempts to get words out, his voice shook so hard. “You . . . all right?”

She lifted her hand, looked at it. Blood trickled from her nose. His horror soured into shame. “Oh, f*ck,” he muttered. “Did I do that?”

“I’m OK.” She touched her nose. Blood reddened her fingers.

“That wasn’t the question.” He tried to get up. Thudded down onto his ass, still shaking. He hadn’t even thought about the nightmares. How dangerous they might be for her. Hadn’t even warned her. Fucking idiot. He’d just drifted off in a post-coital haze. La-di-dah. Zzzz.