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I stared at Rosier, the hateful, lying, deceitful bastard that he was, and just didn’t know. Pritkin hated his father, and while I didn’t know all his reasons, I assumed they were good ones; I had plenty of my own. Trusting him now—
“My dear girl,” he said, with a patient drawl in his voice. “If I wanted him dead, why would I be here at all? A few more minutes in your tender care should take care of things, with no interference from me.”
And he was right. Despicable as he was, he was right. I was sitting here mourning the man, and he wasn’t even dead yet. But he would be, would be very soon, if I didn’t get my shit together, if I didn’t figure something out. I pushed at Pritkin’s inert body, trying to turn him on his side, to gain more access, but he was heavy and I didn’t see how this was going to—
“Oh, for the love of—What he sees in you, I will never know,” the demon said, in evident amazement.
“What do I do?” I asked frantically.
“If you want someone to eat, you must first prepare the meal. And he is hardly in a position to do it for you. Here,” he said, with a sigh. “Let Daddy help.”
And without warning, something snapped in the air around us. It felt like an electric current, only softer, warmer, infinitely more enticing. It pulsed through me like a wave, making my skin flush, my nipples peak and my heart beat harder in my throat. I stopped pushing on Pritkin and curled up next to him instead, sighing as my hands slid into the front of his coat, seeking warmth, seeking skin.
I slipped them under his T-shirt, feeling hard muscle and soft hair, and kissed his neck. That
didn’t get me anywhere, but when I gently bit the knob of his Adam’s apple, I felt it bob faintly under my lips. So I did it again, before moving up to take his lower lip between mine. It gave under my teeth, a damp, swollen heat, and somebody moaned, but I wasn’t sure which of us it was. I didn’t care.
Except about one thing. There were too many straps and buckles and obstacles in the way. There were holsters and belts and vials and guns, when I craved skin on skin.
But that wasn’t a problem for long. I watched in bemused fascination as a buckle on his shoulder slid out of its loop all on its own, the little prong popping loose from its leather jail , before the whole thing slithered to the floor. The same was happening with the belt around his waist, which turned loose and then jerked out from under him, tossing itself into the front seat. And then the zipper on his jeans slid open, as if an invisible finger was pushing it down.
I don’t remember much of the next few minutes. Everything went fuzzy, a warm, golden haze that caught the seconds, stretching them like taffy. I do remember a man’s chest, hard muscle under my hand, a sweeping ladder of ribs, the smooth rise of a hip . . . and Pritkin jerking back, his breathing heavy, his jaw like iron.
His weapons were gone, and most of his shirt, too, although, oddly, he still wore one arm of his coat. The jeans were also still in place, but they were sagging in front, showing off a ridged abdomen and a light brown treasure trail. I pushed at them impatiently, got them mostly off his hips, before a hand grabbed mine and forced it back against the seat.
“You don’t want this,” he told me harshly.
I didn’t say anything; I couldn’t think clearly enough to put into words just how wrong he was. I’d never wanted anything more in my life.
I slid the other hand behind his neck, tried to pull him down to me, only to have the same thing happen. My other hand hit the seat, trapped in his as securely as in a manacle. Pritkin wasn’t touching me otherwise, but he was right there, bare chest heaving, skin damp and moist, his one bare arm corded with muscle as he held me against the seat, helpless.
My body liked that, liked the fact that his eyes had bled black, with only a thin ring of emerald fire around the iris. But it liked a lot less that he was just staying there, wasn’t moving away, but wasn’t coming closer. It hurt not to touch him, an actual, physical ache, to see the rivulets sweat had carved down all those muscles, the swirling patterns it had made in his body hair, and not be able to trace them with my fingers, with my tongue....
He was saying something, but I didn’t listen. Didn’t care. My hands were fixed to the seat, but in holding mine, he’d immobilized his own as well. And we were close, so very close, that he couldn’t stop me from winding a leg around him, from arching up to rub my cheek against the soft fur on his chest, from finding a peaked nipple and biting—
“Cassie, please . . .” It came out choked, desperate, but to me it sounded like encouragement.
I bit down a little harder, and he cried out. I let my tongue lave the small mark I’d made, and his whole body shook in pleasure. It rippled into me, banishing the pain, but increasing the hunger. It felt wonderful, touching this much flesh, feeling his heart beat hard under my lips. But I wanted more, wanted to feel all that velvet skin on mine, wanted everything.
And so did he. Whatever he said, his hunger radiated down through his skin and into mine, making me cry out, making me crazy. I arched up and his chest barely brushed my erect nipples, but the shock of pleasure was intense, overpowering, magnifying the craving by a power of ten. I writhed against his hold, needing the pressing weight, the fierce cadence of skin on skin, the—
“Cassie!” A hand gripped my face, turning my eyes up to his, making me focus. Green eyes blazed down into mine, no longer black but strangely, unearthly bright. “You’ve been influenced. Do you understand? Remember how it felt before?”
A memory tugged at my mind, but it was vague, uninteresting. I pushed against his hands, throwing everything I had into it, but it was like fighting a statue. I cried out in pain and raw, unfulfilled need.
Pritkin cursed, but not at me. “What did you do to her?”
“What do you think?” someone laughed. “You know, you really should help the poor girl.”
“Stay out of this,” Pritkin snarled, and the tone was enough to send tongues of flame licking at pleasure points deep inside me. I whimpered.
“If I had, you’d be dead,” the other voice commented. “You’re welcome, by the way.”
He may have said more, but I didn’t hear. Because those warm hands had released me to close over my feet, gently sliding off my shoes before smoothing possessively over my calves. The sensation was exquisite, torturous, had my whole body jumping like a sensitized nerve ending. I started to reach out, to touch, to stroke, and immediately the hands were removed.
“No. Stay still.”
It was Pritkin’s voice, the one he used for command, the one I rarely heard but automatically obeyed. Usually because it meant that bad people with nasty weapons were aiming them at my head. I didn’t know what the cause was this time, but I fell back against the seat, breathing hard. And the hands returned.
