Into the Fire - Anne Stuart [50]
A disaster was something not to be repeated. To be talked about. The inevitable had happened, and somehow she’d known it would. But now she was getting out of here, as fast as she could go.
Mouser was the last person he expected to see when he emerged from the bathroom. He was so damned pissed at himself his savage mood spilled over onto the world in general. He’d planned to make her come, over and over again, until there was no way she could hide away in that pseudo-virgin body of hers. No way she could hide away from him.
And instead he’d lost control like a teenage boy and shot his load before he’d given her no more than the first taste of arousal.
He’d been planning to take care of that the moment he got back to her. But she was gone, and instead Mouser was standing there looking at him like he’d murdered a kitten.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing, Killer?” he demanded.
Dillon managed a grim smile. “I’m about to cut your throat. I happen to be busy. Go away.”
“I don’t think so. It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out what’s been going on here. Why don’t you leave the poor girl alone? You don’t need her. You’ll only hurt her, and no matter how much Nate fucked you over you shouldn’t take it out on his cousin.”
“It has nothing to do with Nate. I spent a year and a half in jail because of that woman. Don’t you figure she owes me?”
“No. Any time you spent in jail was long overdue and you know it. That’s no excuse, and you don’t even believe it yourself. I figure you’ve got a major jones for that woman and it ain’t her fault. Send her home, man.”
“Not yet.”
“You’re a stubborn son of a bitch, you know that? Don’t blame her for Nate. Any score you had to settle with him has already been paid in full, don’t you think? You’ve never been a cold-blooded bastard, Killer.”
“That’s where you’re wrong. I’ve had lots of experience being a cold-blooded bastard, and that’s what she expects from me. I wouldn’t want to disappoint her.” He leaned down and picked up the T-shirt she’d dropped in her escape. He’d had her. A good solid taste of her after God knew how many years of waiting. And it had just whetted his appetite.
Cinnamon. The T-shirt smelled of cinnamon. He couldn’t let her go. Not yet. Even though he’d done his damnedest to atone for a lifetime of sins, there was a limit to his good behavior. And that limit was Jamie Kincaid.
“Get the fuck out of here, Mouser. We’ve had this argument before and it’s just a waste of time. I’ll do what I want with her, and she’s not going to object. And next time knock before you walk in.”
“She probably doesn’t know how to object. You’re the experienced one. You could let her go.”
“I’m not going to. Lock the door behind you.”
“You’re a bastard, Dillon. I love you, anyway, but sometimes you make it real tough,” Mouser said sternly. “Think twice before you hurt that girl again. You’ll only end up hating yourself even more than you do now.”
“Go fuck yourself, Mouser.”
Dillon made no noise as he walked up the creaky stairs. Mouser was gone, the door locked behind him, and no one was going to stop him this time. He wouldn’t be able to start where he left off, but it wouldn’t take long to get her back to the point of trembling surrender again. This time he’d do a better job of it. And to hell with Mouser and any trace of conscience that was bothering him.
He almost had his hand on the doorknob when he heard her. It took him a moment to figure out what the choking sound was. She was crying, and trying to stifle the sound against something. The pillow, the mattress, her fist. It didn’t matter. She was trying not to make a sound, and it made it all the worse. She was probably huddled in some corner, waiting for him to come get her.
He’d never been susceptible to a woman’s tears. He’d had more than his share cried over him, at him. Women trying to manipulate him, make him feel guilty. And Jamie Kincaid was the kind of woman who cried at the drop of a hat. Hell, she was probably just frustrated by his rushed attempt at fucking her and didn’t know