14 - J. T. Ellison [93]
She tried to stand, barely registering when she couldn’t. Her head began to swim, and darkness enveloped her.
He sensed the movement, got up and went to the window, looked into the room. She was awake. Good. It was nearly time. He wanted to talk to her, to hear that smoky voice again. But it was taking her so long to get over the stun gun. Maybe the chloroform was a little much, too. He didn’t know how strong she was, how much she was going to fight. She’d actually come to for a moment as she’d been carried toward the plane. He’d felt her muscles tense and slapped a soaked handkerchief across her nose and mouth.
He’d hoped she’d be awake hours ago. Instead she sat, strapped into the chair, and slept. He thought she might even have dreamed—her eyes moved back and forth under the lids and she moaned softly. Those lips. That moan had done more to him in two seconds than any woman had in two years. She was absolutely delicious. He wanted her. On so many levels.
As he watched, she moved slightly, then drifted away again. Maybe it wasn’t time, after all. Too bad.
He made a phone call, let L’Uomo know that she was starting to come to. L’Uomo had warned him to keep his hands off, but he longed to touch her skin again, so warm, so tight.
There was motion again in the room. Yes, she was fully awake now.
Standing at the window, he watched her, amazed at her beauty. She tried to shake her head and groaned, to his everlasting delight. Maybe he couldn’t touch, but nothing said he had to be a monk about it. His hand went to the fly on his pants and he reached inside, grasping himself. A woman, incapacitated, tied to a chair…a normal man would feel chivalrous, not wholly aroused and harder than a rock. A few quick strokes was all it took. He closed his eyes in bliss as he came.
“Atlas, you revolting creature.”
L’Uomo’s voice boomed and Atlas opened his eyes in shock, his hand still wrapped around his rapidly shrinking penis. Oh, God, he’d been caught. He stumbled back against the wall, fumbling his dick back into his pants, all six foot eight inches of him crowding the space where a neat, gray-haired gentleman stood, lips curled in disgust.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I couldn’t help myself.” Atlas bowed his head.
“Obviously you aren’t capable of handling this situation, Atlas. You are dismissed. Send Dusty in to replace you. Tell him no books, this needs his utmost attention. You may leave now.”
Atlas turned to the window, giving the woman one last glance. “Beautiful,” he muttered, then left the small observation room.
L’Uomo stood in the window and watched as Taylor Jackson struggled against her bonds. Beautiful, indeed. But he didn’t need his men distracted by a helpless succubus. Dusty would manage her; he seemed to feel nothing for the opposite sex. Of course, the court-mandated Depo-Provera shots the man took neutered him quite effectively.
The girl was fighting it now, fully conscious and trying to get untied. He watched, feeling a twitch in his own groin as she struggled. She’d fight the bonds for hours if he let her. Tough girl. He was going to have to talk to her, prevent her from hurting herself. She would have to relieve herself soon, and then they needed to get her fed and watered.
He admired her spirit. High praise from a man who admired nothing.
Thirty-Three
Nashville, Tennessee
Monday, December 22
8:00 a.m.
They’d spent the night working the airport staff for clues. The limo had been found. A bullet hole had shattered the windshield. Taylor’s veil, tucked into the soft leather, was the only material evidence that she’d been in the car. Physical confirmation was under way—fingerprints being lifted, the car gleaned for blood. Anything that might tell the story of what happened before it arrived at the airport. The only concrete information they had was the bullet had come from the interior of the vehicle, not shot in from the outside. It confirmed that there was a struggle.