Deadly Game (GhostWalkers #5)(62)
Author: Christine Feehan

Mari smelled the jungle, felt heat and humidity, raindrops on her skin. The sensation was vivid, so much so that she heard the cry of a monkey and the persistent call of birds. She kept her eyes closed, knowing she was seeing a memory of Ken’s inadvertently triggered by what she was feeling. The smell of blood assailed her nostrils and she tasted the coppery flavor in her mouth. A face was there, a man with the same dead eyes as Peter Whitney, and the knife in his hand was covered with blood. Ken was stretched out, tied so tightly the thin wires cut into his skin.

Mari hadn’t noticed if he had scars on his wrists and ankles, but with this small glimpse into his past, she was certain he had them. Why hadn’t she noticed something that important?

Baby. He whispered the endearment like a physical caress. You couldn’t notice with all the other scars. I’m sorry I took you there. It was an accident.

I know that. I wish I could touch you—comfort you. Because beside the things he’d endured, Peter Whitney’s humiliating punishments were child’s play. And this was a form of punishment even more than a collecting of documentation for Whitney. She had left the compound without permission, and this was the one thing he knew she hated. But he wasn’t crouching in front of her, dispassionately slicing a razor-sharp blade through her skin while others gathered around laughing and urging him on.

Woman, I’m supposed to be comforting you, not sharing memories.

The memory steadied me. I can get through this. I hated the idea of him seeing the marks you made on my body and knowing how you put them there. I thought it would turn something special to me into something altogether different, but I’m proud of the marks you put there. Screw Whitney. He isn’t going to take you away from me.

Again she felt the brush of his fingers along her neck, as if he stroked her like a kitten. Good for you. That man can’t take away anything we did or have together. He’s nothing, Mari, nothing at all. I’m with you. Right here. He can’t separate us now, no matter how much he wants to. I took you to the jungle, and I can take you somewhere much better. But, sweetheart, I’ve got to be able to picture you with clothes on. You’re killing me here.

Again she wanted to laugh and had to keep her expression exactly the same. It took discipline, but she managed. She couldn’t believe that he would make her want to smile when she was exposed and vulnerable and Whitney and his doctor were dissecting her like a bug—well, maybe not dissecting her. Ken had been dissected, cut into little pieces, stripped of his dignity and then the skin on his back. She couldn’t imagine the pain or the rage or the utter hopelessness. That was the worst to her—the despair one felt when totally helpless.

Whitney was a madman. It had taken her years to admit it fully—for all of them to admit it—because they were totally dependent on him for everything. They had no real contact with the outside world and nowhere to go to escape the endless demands and experiments. With the glimpse into Ken’s past, she felt more connected to him, and the connection felt intimate. She clung to his mind, wanting him to keep her centered.

Sex is a big thing to you. She was glad it was—after all, they’d had great sex and she hoped to have even more—but on the other hand, she wanted to matter to him on more than that level.

Yeah, sex is a big deal as long as you’re my partner. I haven’t exactly had a lot of any other lately. I didn’t think I could.

There was such raw honesty in his voice, she felt tears burning again and had to struggle not to betray herself. He didn’t have to tell her that, but she could understand. He’d been so damaged, the slices everywhere, and when he was fully erect, it had to hurt. Is it painful?

There was a small silence and she found herself holding her breath. She knew he didn’t want to answer, that he was weighing his words.

Ken sighed and stared up at the sky. He had known there would come a time he would have to explain it all to her—admit that it wasn’t just his face revealing the monster, that Ekabela had brought that monster into every aspect of his life. He damn well wasn’t going to lie to her—not with her stretched out on a table and some son of a bitch photographing the strawberries he’d put on her inner thighs.

You don’t have to tell me.

It isn’t that. I don’t want you running away from me.

There was the impression of laughter. I’m tied up at the moment.

He sent her the impression of a groan. Don’t say tied up. You know what happens to me the minute you say that. The things I could do to you—the way I could make you feel.

The laughter in his mind was like a caress, stroking through his body until he felt it everywhere—until he felt it in his soul. Nothing—no one—ever choked him up, but he found himself doing just that. Yes, there’s pain, but in a good way. There isn’t a lot of sensation as a rule, and when I’m full and ready, the skin stretches so tight pulling that it takes a lot to stimulate me. I’m rough and I have to be. The thing is, Mari . . . He felt like a sick pervert. The last person she needed around her was him.

Just tell me. I’m not exactly a virgin here, Ken.

His hand knotted into a hard fist and he thumped the ground beside him. Yes, you are. You don’t know the first thing about making love. Someone should be making love to you. Gentle, tender, slow, and easy. A man should treasure every moment with you, savor it and make certain you’re screaming with pleasure. He wanted those things for her, desperately wanted them for her, and yet he would never be that man.

The impression of laughter came again. Like you did.

Ken frowned. She wasn’t getting it. Not exactly like I did. I was too rough, Mari. If you’re with me, I would always be rough. I’d want things from you; I’d want you to learn to have the kind of sex I need, and that’s not the best thing for you.

He felt like an idiot trying out each word in his mind before he sent it to her. What the hell could he say? He wanted to make her his sex slave? He did. Ever since he’d touched her skin, he’d wanted to do everything there was to her, bind her to him so no one else would ever do for her. He wouldn’t mind tying her down and having her at his mercy. He could love her for hours.

He shoved his head into the palm of his hand. She was tied to a table, and he was thinking of how he could bring her such pleasure she’d drown in it. Maybe he was as sick as Whitney—or Ekabela.

Don’t be ridiculous. No one is as sick as either of them. And I’d fantasize about what you’d do to me if you had me tied down—or better yet let you tell me yourself—but I’d get all hot and Whitney would know you’re here with me. So no sex on the table and no thinking about tying me up. You can do that another time.