Fire and Ice

by Anne Stuart

  At first he thought she’d ignore him, but a moment later she turned her back on him, her shoulders hunched over, shutting him out. Giving him a view of her narrow, elegant back, the ridiculously erotic nape of her neck, the zipper that ran the length of the black corset Kyo had brought for her.

  She jumped when he put his hands on her, but she didn’t move away, and he placed one hand on her shoulder as he began to unzip the corset. He could feel her tremble beneath his touch, but she didn’t protest, didn’t move.

  Another man might have had trouble with the complicated corset, but it came apart easily in his hands, and he tossed it to one side, so that she was sitting with her back to him, in a mound of fluffy skirts and fishnet stockings and nothing on top. And he couldn’t help himself—he leaned forward and put his mouth against the nape of her neck.

  She shivered. A tiny shimmer of reaction, dancing across her skin. He unhooked the skirt, the two layers of crinoline. She’d been obedient all day—how long would it last? “Take off your skirts, Ji-chan,” he whispered.

  For an endless moment he couldn’t breathe, waiting for her. And then she rose on her knees, her back still toward him, and pulled the layers of skirts over her head, leaving her in a pair of frilly bloomers and a black lace garter belt holding up her fishnet stockings.

  It was his turn to groan. She was supposed to panic, come back to life, fight him. She wasn’t supposed to do what he told her, strip off her clothes and wait patiently for him to touch her.

  He couldn’t do it. He knelt there, looking at her vulnerable back, hard enough to get off just watching her, and he couldn’t do it. It wasn’t fear of Taka, it wasn’t even fear of her thinking it meant more than a fuck, a simple release of tension.

  He just couldn’t do it to her.

  He climbed off the bed and went to the closet, pulling out one of the yukata that came with the room. When he turned back she hadn’t moved, and he put the robe over her shoulders, helping her put it on, resisting the impulse to even look at her breasts, because he was hard enough as it was.

  She let him tie the belt. “You need to sleep, Ji-chan,” he said, pushing her back gently onto the bed. “Get under the covers.”

  She was obedient again, sliding beneath the covers. Despite her height she looked very small in the king-size bed.

  Her hair was in her face, and he pushed it out of her eyes, gently. She blinked. And then she closed her eyes, shutting him out.

  He picked a hell of a time to grow a conscience, he thought as he moved back into the sitting area of the suite. He couldn’t remember a time when he needed the release of sex so badly, and whether he liked it or not, he wanted Summer’s sister. Had wanted her from the moment he grabbed her in Taka’s house. Hell, wanted her since he saw her in Peter Madsen’s garden two years ago. And he could have her, right now.

  He stripped off the rest of his clothes and stretched out on the sofa. It was too short for his body, but it would have to do. If someone wanted to get to Jilly, they’d have to go through him, and for now he could let himself sleep.

  She must have made some kind of sound, because he was just coming awake when she screamed. He moved quickly, on top of her before the second scream could erupt from her throat, covering her mouth with his hand. “Hush, Ji-chan. It will be all right. I promise you.”

  She was fighting him, struggling, and he caught her flailing arms and imprisoned them between them. “Calm down. If you scream again, it will bring too much attention.”

  She shoved him, pushing him off her, and he let her go, watching her out of hooded eyes as she scrambled off the bed, backing against the wall like a cornered animal, panting with fear.

  “Make it stop,” she whispered. “Make it go away.”

  He shook his head. “Ji-chan, I don’t know how to do that.”

  “Yes, you do.” She looked at him through the darkness, and her eyes were glittering with unshed tears. “Make it go away.”

  He came off the bed, moving toward her, giving her time to change her mind, to panic, to retreat. But she didn’t move, waiting for him.

  He hauled her up, pushing her against the wall, and brought his body up against hers, so she’d know exactly what she was asking. “Are you sure?”

  She was frantic, her fingers digging into his shoulders, trying to bring him closer. “Make it stop, make it stop, make it—”

  He lifted her up, pressing her against the wall, and tore open the yukata. She was still wearing the garters and the bloomers, and he slid his hands up her thighs, flicking the garters open with his thumbs. The stockings stayed up anyway. He slid his hands up and tugged at the white cotton bloomers, drawing them down her long legs, only to realize she was wearing a tiny black lace thong.

  He was going to kill Kyo. He was going to buy him a case of sake. He sank to his knees in front of her and pressed his mouth against the tiny scrap of fabric as he pulled the bloomers over her feet and tossed them aside. As if she wasn’t torment enough, she was a walking sex dream, and his last shred of conscience disappeared.

  She made a muffled sound, of need, of protest, as he started to pull the thong down, and he simply broke the thin lace straps so that he could use his mouth on her.

  Her hands were on his shoulders, her fingers digging in, and he wasn’t sure whether she was trying to push him away or pull him closer. It didn’t matter. He loved going down on women—it was his second favorite thing in the world to do, and with each touch, each lick, each tiny bite she quivered in shocked arousal. She was saying something, but he decided not to listen. It wouldn’t make sense, anyway, and he slid his hands up her body, pushing the yukata off as he felt her first tiny climax.

  He wanted more. He slid his fingers inside her, and she moaned. He couldn’t believe how tight she was, tight and wet, and then he stopped thinking as he felt her shatter, her breath coming in deep, gasping gulps as her body arched.

  He rose, lifting her, pressing her against the wall, pulling her legs around his hips, so damned ready for her, and he wanted to slam into her, hard, but he held back, controlling himself. He started to pushed inside her, just a little bit, into the tight wet heat of her, slowly, then pulled out again, so that she made a little mewling cry of need, and then he went deeper, a shallow, taunting rhythm just to drive every thought, every memory, out of her mind, just to drive himself crazy.

  He went deeper with each thrust, getting her used to him, and she dropped her head against his shoulder. He could feel the wetness of her tears, the trembling of her body, and it wasn’t enough. He had to bring her all the way there, with nothing held back, and he thrust into her, completely, and she let out a small cry that sounded like pain.

  He froze, ready to pull out, but she clutched him even tighter. “Don’t stop,” she whispered. “Don’t stop.”

  And then there was no way he could have. His body took over, slamming into her. With each thrust she tightened around him, and when the climax hit her it brought him along with it, and he pulled out, quickly, still holding her against the wall as the orgasm ripped through her body. It should have been enough, but he was greedy, and he put his hand between her legs, touching her, and she slammed her face against his shoulder, muffling her scream.

  He made it last. Long enough that all conscious thought had left her, and she was animal, elemental and his. He turned her from the wall and pushed her down on the bed, following her, and he was still hard, or maybe he was hard again; he’d been too busy paying attention to her to even notice whether his erection had ever faded. It only mattered that he was hard and he still wanted her, and when he pushed her back and moved between her legs she arched her hips, her hands reaching out for him, to pull him into her, deep and tight, and she climaxed again when he filled her.

  This time he could keep it up forever—she needed oblivion and she was right, he knew how to give it. He could last all night long if she needed it, and even if his cock gave out he could still make her come from a dozen other ways. He didn’t want her thi
nking, feeling, anything but him, inside her.

  By the time she fell asleep there wasn’t a space on her body that he hadn’t touched. She lay sprawled on the bed, in a deep, dreamless sleep, and he lay beside her, watching her, as the sun rose over the Tokyo skyscrapers. Watched her as he felt something inside him knot. Dread, and longing, and something he refused to even think about.

  There was a smear of blood on the bed, and he stared at it. There was no such thing as a twenty-year-old virgin—maybe she was just coming off her period. He wasn’t squeamish about such things, but that wouldn’t explain her initial pain, or her unexpected tightness.

  Shit. It was impossible. When he’d kissed her, back at his apartment, she hadn’t responded, but he’d thought that was because he’d been goading her. Maybe she really didn’t know how.

  He pushed off the bed. She’d sleep for hours now, the nightmares chased away for the time being. And maybe his nightmare was just beginning.

  The sun was beating against her eyelids, determined to wake her, and she didn’t want to move. Her entire body hurt, and yet for once she was lying on a real mattress, not on a thin futon or in a plastic capsule. She stretched, and every muscle, every joint, felt achy in a deliciously decadent way she’d never felt before.

  And then memory came flooding back with a horrifying swiftness. Reno’s apartment. The gun. The dead man.

  After that she couldn’t remember anything until she woke up in bed in the middle of the night and Reno came in….

  The whimper came from her own throat as she sat up. There was no sign of him. Her clothes were scattered all over the bedroom, but there was no way in hell she was going to touch them. She dove for the yukata that lay in a pile in a corner, and she remembered what he’d been doing when he stripped it off her. Oh, God.

  The bathroom door was open, but it was empty. She could smell shampoo and water—he must have just left. She rose on unsteady feet, moving toward the window to look at the view of Tokyo. There were snow flurries dancing around the window, and far below the thick pack of pedestrians were bundled against the cold. She leaned her forehead against the window and closed her eyes.

  She was a heartless, shallow, miserable excuse for a human being. Not because she’d killed a man. But because right now she was much more horrified about what she’d done with Reno in that huge bed.

  When she finally moved, the snow was coming down more heavily. There was a clock beside the bed—the tumbled, messed-up bed. It was early afternoon, and Reno had disappeared. Which at this point was a good thing.

  There was a pile of clothes on the sofa. He’d clearly thought better of the Gothic-Lolita look, and he’d somehow managed to find loose silk pants and a silk shirt and camisole. And a goddamn thong. She moaned again at the memory.

  No bra, but she’d have to make do—she’d left hers in Reno’s apartment, and either he hadn’t been able to find one in her size or he’d chosen not to. She opened the yukata to look at her breasts. There was a bite mark on one, and chafe marks from his skin. Against hers. In that bed.

  She grabbed the clothes and practically ran for the bathroom, cursing herself up and down. Had she gone out of her mind? Why couldn’t she be like a normal female, with a reasonable amount of experience? She’d tried, with Duke, but she could see by the stain on the sheet that he hadn’t quite succeeded. Reno had.

  She took as long in the shower as she could, scrubbing every inch of her body. Trying to ignore the fact that he’d used the soap on his body. On the parts of his body that had been inside her body. Again and again. And again.

  She hurt. She didn’t remember making any protest, but a hot, soaking bath would have made her more comfortable. By the time she turned off the shower her skin was pink from scrubbing. At least the silk pants were loose-fitting—tight jeans would have been an agony she didn’t want to think about.

  She was just getting ready to leave the bathroom when she smelled the coffee, and for the first time in her life the smell of coffee made her sick. In this hermetically sealed modern building the only way the smell of coffee would reach her would be if someone had brought it into the suite.

  She had to face him sooner or later. She looked at her reflection in the mirror. Her short hair was damp and curling slightly around her face. She looked at her mouth, and an even more awful memory came back to her. With all the things he did to her, all the things she’d willingly participated in, he’d never kissed her. Not once.

  It was enough of a shock to give her the courage to face him. She walked out of the bathroom, to see him lounging on the sofa, a paper cup of Star-bucks in his hand, a second one on the table.

  He lifted his head, looking at her, and there was something about his cool, lazy expression that warned her things were about to get a lot worse.

  He didn’t say a word when she came forward and picked up the coffee, and the silence was making her want to scream. “This is for me?”

  “Yes.”

  More silence. “I found the clothes you got me,” she said, then could have kicked herself for such an inane statement.

  He tilted his head to one side. Mocking Reno was back, and he’d even found another pair of sunglasses that were now perched on top of his flaming hair. “Obviously,” he said. “I take it you’ve gotten over your traumatic experience.”

  “Which one?” The words came out unbidden, and his smile was cool and unpleasant.

  “Take your pick, Jilly. I don’t know which was worse for you—blowing a man’s head off or blowing—”

  “Don’t!”

  “Though actually you didn’t blow me, did you? You just lay back and enjoyed yourself. Except you’re not thinking it was that enjoyable after all, am I right?”

  “I don’t know what I’m thinking.”

  He put his feet on the floor, and she backed up nervously. He laughed. “Don’t worry. I’m not going to touch you again. I make it a practice to keep away from virgins.”

  “I wasn’t…I mean, not really.”

  “There’s no such thing as a semivirgin.”

  “Actually, there is, but I’m not about to explain it to you. You’re acting as if I did something terrible to you.”

  “Instead of the other way around? You’re forgetting one thing. I didn’t offer. You asked.”

  “What?”

  “‘Make it stop,’” he said, echoing her words. “So I did what you asked. I made it stop. A very big mistake.”

  She just stared at him. The coffee was warm in her hand, the smell teasing her. But she couldn’t move.

  “What do you mean?”

  He gave her his lazy smile. “I mean, that when I’m looking for sex, I prefer a woman who knows what she’s doing.”

  She could feel her face whiten. He leaned back again, nonchalant. “You know why I hate American women?”

  “No.” She could still talk. Amazing.

  “Because my mother was American. She thought it would be fun to play yakuza royalty for a while, but then she tired of it, and she left me with my grandfather and never came back. Poor, poor little Hiromasa with his abandonment issues and his mommy fixation.” He took another sip of his coffee and smiled at her, that cruel, ugly smirk that she’d hoped was gone. “So every now and then I like to fuck American women so I can fuck my mother. And then tell them to fuck off.”

  She threw the coffee at him. The top came off and the hot liquid went flying, soaking his new white shirt.

  “I told you not to do that,” he said in an even voice. “I don’t like being hit or having things thrown at me. I tend to react badly.”

  “As opposed to what?” She’d managed to find her voice and her fury.

  He rose and headed for the bathroom at a lazy stroll, pulling off his jacket and the coffee-stained white shirt as he went. Exposing his chest and his back. And the scratch marks. “I’ll give you this one,” he said as he headed into the bathroom. “But next time I’ll hit you back.”

  He closed the door, and she heard the wate
r running.

  Her shoes were by the door. It took her less than a moment to slip them on. And then she was out the door, closing it quietly behind her, and she never looked back.

  14

  Reno looked at his reflection in the mirror as he wiped the coffee off. He’d set things straight; she knew exactly where she stood. Last night was only an aberration, a one-night stand, the sort of thing he excelled at. It meant absolutely nothing.

  And the added side benefit—unless she was a masochist, she’d be completely over him, which is just the way he wanted it. He never wanted another night like last night. When he couldn’t get enough of her, no matter how he pushed it, no matter what he lured her into doing. It wasn’t enough. It would never be enough, and that scared the hell out of him.

  Attacking a woman’s sexuality was always an effective way to get rid of an unwanted leftover. There’s no way she’d ever let down her defenses with him again—he’d scarred her too deeply. He had no doubt she hated him more than she thought she had the capacity to hate. He could have told her otherwise. Humans, even the least experienced, had an infinite capacity for hate.

  Hating him was the best thing he could do for her. She’d be able to turn her back on everything that had happened in Japan. And he could turn his back on her.

  He shoved a hand through the spiky red hair. Yeah, he was a real hard-ass, he thought, putting his sunglasses back on his nose. She didn’t need to see that his eyes were a dead giveaway if she had the chance to look closely enough. He didn’t need or want anyone, ever. And this momentary insanity would be over as soon as he managed to dump her.

  Hitomi’s men would be on the lookout for him, but there were at least three secret entrances to the compound, made for a last-minute escape, and he doubted Hitomi had found them. Even Ojiisan’s bodyguard, Kobayashi, didn’t know of their existence.

  She’d do what he told her now—he’d managed to strip away any remaining defenses when he’d stripped away her clothes. She’d stay put while he went out to reconnoiter, and if he had any doubts, he’d cut the electric cord off a lamp and tie her up.