Into the Fire - Anne Stuart [59]
He laughed. “We haven’t even gotten to your breasts yet,” he said, his fingers glancing against the tip of her breast, and her nipples tightened with almost painful longing. “Or your ass, or your mouth. I wonder how long it’s going to take to convince you to go down on me.”
She let out a little whimper.
“Thirteen years, Jamie,” he whispered. “And we’ve only just gotten started.”
He was gone then, the door closing behind him, and Jamie lay in the dark, her body leaden, unable to move.
And she shivered.
Nate could smell it. The sex, permeating the building, reeking of it. Could ghosts smell? Could ghosts see through walls? He only knew that he could. His hearing was just as acute—he’d listened to Jamie’s soft little whimpers, the sound of skin against skin, the slap of flesh, the muffled grunt. He knew when Dillon came. He’d watched him often enough over the years, so that he knew him better than the women he fucked. He knew the sound he made, a growling choke in the back of his throat. And he knew the climax he had inside his cousin’s little pussy was one of the best he’d ever had.
It should have annoyed him. He never liked it when Dillon took lovers. Dillon didn’t like to hurt them, and sex without pain was boring. It didn’t matter. None of them mattered—he didn’t care about anyone. He didn’t really care about anyone but his best friend Nate.
Until he’d sent him to his death.
Revenge was a bitch. But watching Dillon Gaynor fuck his sweet little cousin almost made it worthwhile. Especially since he knew he was going to kill Jamie for it.
And the best thing about it was how it was going to make Killer suffer the torments of the damned. Before the ghost of Nate Kincaid killed him, too.
14
Dillon stood in the shower a long time, so long that his usually abundant supply of hot water turned cold. He pressed his hands up against the wall of the stall and let the water beat down on him, and he closed his eyes, turning his face up to the pelting stream. He didn’t feel guilty. There was nothing to feel guilty about. He’d just done what she’d asked, and this time he’d done it well. And he was going to do it again, as soon as he thought she was up to it. Again and again and again, until they’d had enough of each other.
Jamie was absolutely clueless about what was between them, he thought, ducking his head under the rapidly cooling water. The poor fragile semivirgin, whose only experience with sex was at the hands of a punk kid who’d raped her. She didn’t realize how unexpected her response to him was. He thought it would take days to get her to come, and in the end it had been simple enough. It shouldn’t have surprised him—she’d always had a crush on him, and getting a teenage fantasy fulfilled went a long way. And he knew more than his share about sex—he knew how to do it, and do it well, and never had any doubt he could bring her off eventually. In the end it hadn’t taken much at all.
He was trying to kill some time. She needed sleep, she needed time to recover. Hell, he was hard as a rock just thinking about her, ready to go again, but he knew she’d probably be uncomfortable. If he went back in there there was no way he wouldn’t be inside her, and he didn’t want to hurt her. He needed her to keep liking it. For as long as he wanted her.
It wouldn’t be forever. It never was—sooner or later even the most adept of his lovers began to pall, and he didn’t like emotional demands. Jamie used to think she was in love with him—one good orgasm and she’d probably be convinced again. And he’d given her at least two.
She’d be disillusioned after a while. He was still Dillon, still the Killer. A man whose one gift had been for friendship, and he’d turned around and betrayed the man who’d been closest to him for most of his life.
No, there wasn’t any future for the two of them—there wasn’t any future for him with anyone. But who gave a rat’s ass about the future? Right now was what mattered, and right now a woman lay in his bed. A woman he needed. And in the end, that was the only thing that was