Fire and Ice - Anne Stuart [56]
He scooped her up, all six feet of her, and carried her into the bedroom, throwing her down on the king-size bed as he stood over her.
“It’s up to you, Ji-chan. I’m not going to stop until you tell me no.” And he pulled off his jacket, tossing it on a chair, only to meet her horrified gaze. Staring at the blood that had stained his shirt, blood from the man she’d killed.
And she opened her mouth to scream.
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No sound came out. She was frozen, staring at his bloodstained shirt. With a muttered curse he ripped it off, buttons flying across the room. Then he reached for the gun tucked at his waist, and she suddenly moved, trying to scramble away from him, across the wide king-size bed, but he caught her leg and hauled her back.
“It’s a gun, Ji-chan,” he said. “You used it to save our lives. It’s just a tool.”
She was fighting now, kicking at him, beginning to come alive beneath his hard hands. He took her hand in his, placing the gun there, forcing her to hold it. She let out an agonized whimper, the first sound he’d heard from her in hours, as she tried to shove it away.
“You have to accept it. You have to accept what you’ve done, that you had no choice.” Was he talking to her, or was he talking to himself? He was no longer sure. For some reason he had to make her come to terms with what she’d done, because if she couldn’t, what hope was there for him?
He wrapped her long fingers around the handle, and suddenly she moved, away from him, clutching the gun. She was pointing it at him, her hands shaking, pointing it at his head.
And she was just freaked enough to kill him, he realized. Her hands were trembling so badly she only had a fifty-fifty chance of hitting him, but he didn’t like those odds. If he moved any closer, she’d shoot him.
“Do you want to kill me, Ji-chan?” His voice was low, calm. “I’m your best chance at staying alive, but maybe you don’t want to stay alive. Maybe you want to take the coward’s way out.”
The gun was still shakily trained on his chest, and he knew it could go off at any minute. She’d managed to get the safety off the first time, in the heat of the moment, she could easily do it again. “Put the gun down,” he said. “Or use it. One or the other.”
She froze. And he moved, onto the bed, crawling toward her, and took the gun out of her hand. He set it on the nightstand, safely within reach. He sat back on his heels, looking at her. Watching her as she tried to retreat back behind the wall of blankness.
“Then we’ll have to try it this way,” he said. “Turn around.”
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.