Burning Dawn (Angels of the Dark #3)(16)
Author: Gena Showalter

Her whimpers hadn’t been sweet, sweet music, as he’d expected. Her fear hadn’t fanned the flames of his passion, and her pain hadn’t soothed the savage beast inside.

She hadn’t given him anything he’d needed.

What did he need?

He thought he’d known.

He could take her again, harder, harsher, and finally, hopefully, exhaust himself, but he refused to bed the same woman twice. Never again would he risk enslavement.

Oh, he knew there were only a handful of females like Kendra, capable of enchaining through sex, and none that were not Phoenix. But what if the Harpy had Phoenix blood in her ancestry? How was a man to know?

Besides, why take the Harpy a second time when his body craved another woman?

The…don’t say it…ignore the desire, and it will go away…human.

He had to bite back an aggravated snarl. He couldn’t ignore—and he couldn’t forget. Somehow, she had branded her image in his mind. Her name, he was suddenly desperate to know. He wished he’d confronted her, today, yesterday, every day, and drank in every word about her.

What was it about this female?

At the camp, she had looked at him with wild panic and even fear, and he’d hated every moment. He should have enjoyed that, as he did with other women, but no. He hadn’t. Therefore, he shouldn’t desire her. But earlier in the club he’d taken one look at her and hungered as if he had never eaten.

She was prettier than he remembered, and he’d somehow scented her from across the room. He’d had to fight the compulsion to close the distance between them, sweep her into his arms and carry her away to ravage her.

She had been dressed provocatively, yes, but that shouldn’t have had any bearing on the situation. Since the opening of the club, his female employees had worn that barely-there uniform. It was like white noise to him—there, but hardly noticeable. And yet, on the human, he’d noticed.

Despite her fragile build, she had lush, ripe br**sts made for a man’s hands and dangerous curves made to cradle the hardest part of him. Her legs would fit perfectly around his hips, anchoring him as he plunged into her—

No!

Tomorrow, he would force her to wear a robe.

He no longer screwed the staff. He could always find a lover, but he couldn’t always find a dedicated, trustworthy worker. And if he took the delicate human the way he liked, the only way he could, he would do more than panic and frighten her. He would harm her irrevocably. In body…and in mind.

He didn’t like the thought of her alabaster skin blighted…or fear in her smoked-glass eyes.

How odd.

You could be gentle with her. You could—

No. He couldn’t. He had tried that before, but it hadn’t worked. He hadn’t even been able to finish. Pain, he’d realized, wasn’t just a desire; it was a need.

Although, he thought he might actually like seeing the human lost in the throes of passion. She would writhe underneath him, soft and warm and wet. He would spread her legs, and she wouldn’t fight him, because she would want him just as desperately as he wanted her. He would relish the sight of her body, pliant and eager. He would kiss each of her freckles, then move over her, push inside her, going slowly at first, savoring every sensation, before increasing his tempo.

His shaft throbbed.

And what happens when your control slips, and you revert to habit?

He pushed the upsetting thought from his mind and focused his attention on the things around him. Though this room was smaller than his, it was far more luxurious. Overhead hung a chandelier boasting a bouquet of rose-shaped diamonds. The walls were sheets of the purest gold, so clear rainbow flecks appeared to be trapped inside. The bed was formed from intricately twisted metals, fit only for a queen…of the night. At both the headboard and footboard were rings for different types of shackles. Whatever he preferred to use during any given encounter.

The Harpy’s breathy sigh sent him striding to the door. The chance for a cold, clean getaway grew slimmer by the moment.

“Don’t want to…sleep with me?” she asked, her voice slurred by fatigue.

Too late.

He looked back. She was still naked and bound to the bed.

Thoughts he’d previously ignored rose. Why had she agreed to be here? He hadn’t used charm, like he once had. He’d simply said, “For a few hours, I’ll do things that will make you cry and demand you do the same to me. Only I won’t cry. I’ll curse you, and take you harder than you’ll think you can bear. Are you in or out?” She’d agreed faster than any other woman ever had. Had needed no other prompting. With only the slightest encouragement, her friends would have agreed, too. They’d moaned, “Lucky,” while she’d stood.

Perhaps he shouldn’t try to analyze why. The answer would probably sadden him.

“Sleeping together wasn’t part of our arrangement.” He’d never spent an entire night with a woman, and he never would. Sleep left you vulnerable. And to have someone within striking distance? No. His dreams were far too violent, his reactions far too telling. He could kill his partner without realizing it.

“Mmm-kay. Chains?”

He returned to her and unfastened her ankle cuffs first, then her wrists, careful not to brush against her. She reached for him, her arm shaking. He backed up before contact could be made. How could he offer solace to someone else when he couldn’t even offer it to himself?

With a sigh, she sagged on the mattress.

He pulled a diamond choker from the air pocket he always carried with him. A shelf of space that hovered between the spiritual and natural realm, opened and sustained by his energy, invisible to the rest of the world. He placed the bauble on the nightstand. “I thank you for your time.”

“Matching earrings?” she asked, before her head lolled to the side and sleep once again claimed her.

He placed a pair of earrings beside the choker and left the room without another word. Bjorn and Xerxes waited for him in the antechamber they shared. The two were on the couch, sipping perfectly aged scotch.

“Thane, my friend, you look far from satisfied,” Bjorn said. “In fact, you look like me.”

The male only ever tolerated sex, using it to forget the past, but never quite succeeding.

“What he means is, you look like a savage,” Xerxes reported.

To Xerxes, sex was a quest for comfort he’d never actually found. He vomited after every encounter, shaking from the effects of the intimacy.

“For once, looks are not deceiving.” His head should be clear. His body should be relaxed. A certain dark-haired, gray-eyed barmaid should be exorcised from his mind.