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He ran his hands over her shoulders, down her back to her bu**ocks, drawing her closer against him, letting her feel the evidence of his rising desire.
She moaned softly, a husky sound of longing and trepidation all rolled into one.
He was moving too fast for her, he knew it, but couldn't seem to stop. He wanted her, here and now, with her eyes wide and a little afraid, her lips swollen from his kisses.
"Brenna…?" He could have seduced her with his preternatural power, but he didn't want her that way. He wanted her warm and willing in his arms, in his bed.
She blinked up at him, her eyes cloudy with desire.
"Do you want me to stop?"
She considered for a moment, and then nodded.
He wasn't surprised, but he couldn't help feeling disgruntled. Though he was no longer mortal, he was still a man, still possessed of a man's needs. Living alone, unwilling to place his trust in anyone for fear of being betrayed, his encounters with women were usually one-night affairs. He had no trouble finding women. They were drawn to him without knowing why. Of course, there were always bars like the Nocturne that catered to those who fancied they were children of the night. The women wore long black dresses, black lipstick, and lots of dark eye shadow. Some of them sported fake fangs. The men wore black leather or long black capes and bristled with attitude. The Nocturne was one of his favorite haunts. It was one of the few places where he could be himself.
He kissed her one more time, then, taking a deep breath, he gained his feet.
"It's late," he said. "You should get some sleep."
She sat up, not quite meeting his eyes. "You are angry with me."
"No." He offered her his hand, felt a rush of heat flow up his arm when she placed her hand in his and let him draw her to her feet.
Still holding her hand, he walked her up the stairs to his bedroom. He kissed her again because he had no power to resist. She didn't move when he broke the kiss, only stood there, looking slightly confused. Grunting softly, he gave her a little push into the room, then closed the door behind her.
It was after midnight. Time to dine.
CHAPTER 7
Roshan wandered the dark streets, listening to the muted sounds of the night— the hum of a white moth's wings, the whisper of a fat gray spider crawling up the side of a crumbling red brick wall, the distant barking of a dog.
He could have transported himself to his destination. He could have taken the Ferrari, but he enjoyed walking alone, late at night, while the rest of the city was asleep.
Moving on, he saw an old wino passed out in an alley; farther down the street, a young couple sat in a parked car, locked in each other's arms, the windows fogged up.
A patrol car slowed, keeping pace with him. The passenger officer gave him the once-over, then turned his head and spoke to his partner, and the car picked up speed again, disappearing around a corner.
Roshan grunted softly. He was used to being stopped and questioned by the police. They tended to be suspicious of anyone walking the streets late at night. These two officers knew him; they had stopped him a little over a year ago, questioned him, checked his ID. When asked about his peculiar hours, Roshan had told them he had insomnia. They had warned him to be careful and let him go. He was still stopped from time to time, whenever there was a new cop on the beat.
He continued on, his senses alert to his surroundings, his thoughts drifting to Brenna as though drawn by invisible cords. What was he going to do with her, now that he had her here? She was totally dependent on him; to his astonishment, he found he rather liked the idea. But she had a quick intelligent mind; it wouldn't take her long to get the hang of things in the twenty-first century, and even though there wasn't much call for witches these days, he was pretty sure she could find a way to earn a living, if that was what she wanted, though there was no need for her to work. He could easily support her if she decided to stay with him. And if she wanted to leave… what then?
He would not keep her in his house against her will, though the idea was far more tempting than it should have been. He could make her his creature, keep her at his side, enchant her to do his bidding, drink of her sweetness whenever he desired… oh yes, the idea was tempting indeed. In days past, when women were little more than chattel, he had done just that, not only to satisfy his own cravings, but to save the life of a young woman whose husband had abused her verbally and physically until she was little more than a frightened shell of a woman. Roshan had dispatched the husband, then taken the girl under his wing. He had found her a safe place to live, fed her and clothed her, cared for her until she died.
"Bethany." He shared her name with the night. He had not thought of her in over a century.
He found his prey exiting a high-class nightclub in a wealthy part of the city. She was dark-haired and statuesque, with deep brown eyes and caramel-colored skin. Her clothes, a tight black sweater with a deep V neck, a pair of skintight white pants, and a white leather jacket, were expensive.
She smiled a knowing smile as he approached. "Sorry, honey," she purred, "but it's late and I'm on my way home."
"I'll walk you," he said, falling into step beside her.
"I'm not walking." Pulling a set of keys out of a small black handbag, she opened the door to a late-model luxury car.
Roshan glanced around. He could take her, here and now, in the car, but there was always the chance of being seen. Better to take her home where there was no chance of discovery.
"Then I'll be your chauffeur for the evening."
"That won't be necessary. I… " Her gaze met his, her voice trailing off as his mind captured hers. She smiled blankly. "Yes, of course."
"My pleasure." Taking the keys from her hand, he escorted her around to the passenger side door, opened it, and handed her into the automobile. Returning to the driver's side, he slid behind the wheel and put the key in the ignition. The car started with a low growl.
"Where do you live?" he asked, pulling away from the curb.
She gave him her address, then sat back in her seat, her hands folded in her lap, her eyes slightly unfocused as he probed her mind.
On the way, he learned that she was a fashion model, recently divorced from a high-profile movie star, that she was the sole support for her mother and her invalid grandmother.
A nice girl, Roshan mused as he parked the car.
She lived on the top floor of a high-rise condo. An elevator whisked them to her apartment. The walls were a stark white, the furniture black leather. Red accent pieces offered the only touch of color— a vase of blood red roses on the mantel, a couple of red throw pillows, a bird carved from a piece of red glass.
