Dark Hunger (29 page)

She had to.

Dr. Wynn picked through the dozens of bones, trying to decide which one to add to his collection. So many bodies to choose from. So many pretty bones to add to his wall. Some large, some small, children’s, women’s, men’s… animals’.

Like fine art, he selected each one for its shape and texture. A finger that had been severed, the bone jutting in jagged lines. A kneecap, once round now distorted.

A splintered rib. A femur carved with the imprint of shattered glass. A tibia marred with the vulture’s teeth prints.

A fractured skull, the eye sockets torn out by the birds of prey.

The vultures had done a number on them, but that was their primal nature, to clean up after death. Just as it was his.

Annabelle’s heart thundered in her chest. Quinton’s gaze locked onto hers, his hunger evident in the deep blackness of his eyes, and sensations stirred low in her belly, rippling through her in erotic waves.

“You’re shivering,” he mumbled in a fierce tone.

She shook her head. “Because I want you.”

His jaw tightened, the scar along his neck glistening with water. “You’re in shock. Let’s dry you off and put you to bed.”

“I don’t want to go to bed,” she whispered roughly. “I want you inside me.”

“Annabelle.” His voice rumbled out, deep and throaty, and he stepped back, dropping the washcloth. Water cascaded over his rippled, muscled chest, down his washboard stomach, over his engorged penis, which twitched with arousal as she blatantly stared at it.

She started to reach for him, but he held up his hands in protest. “Look, I’m not a good guy, Annabelle. But I’m trying to do the right thing here.”

She licked her lips, desperate for comfort. “Why in the hell would you start doing the right thing now?”

A hint of a smile lit his devilish eyes, but he still shook his head.

She didn’t care. Her body craved his, and the dark hunger in his eyes promised her another mind-blowing orgasm.

She knew how to seduce him, how to make him break. Licking her lips, she slid her hands over her breasts, cupping them, twisting her nipples to stiff hard peaks that begged for his mouth. His eyes tracked her movements, his breath hissing between clenched teeth.

“You want your hands on me, don’t you?” she whispered.

His throat muscles contracted visibly as he swallowed. “Yes.”

Forgetting all thoughts of caution, she teased the nipples again, then slid one finger to her center and stroked her clit, moaning as sultry sensations flooded her.

“Don’t make me do this alone,” she whispered. “You know you want me.”

He swallowed again, the raw need in his tautly controlled face exciting her and driving her to a frenzied heat. She lifted her fingers from her damp center and slid them over his length, tracing a finger over the tip of his penis and circling the enormous head.

Then she blatantly parted her legs, displaying herself and begging him with her eyes to take her.

A low groan tore from his throat, and he suddenly snapped. “Dammit, Annabelle. I can’t just watch. Not with you.”

His gruffly spoken admission sent a frisson of fear and pleasure along her spine. Then he jerked her into his arms, dragged her mouth to his, and thrust his tongue into her mouth. His movements were no longer gentle but laced with desperate, raw passion.

She met his tongue thrust for thrust, moaning as his hands splayed over her breasts, teasing her, twisting her nipples until she cried out and ran her foot up his calf. His hair-dusted thigh brushed hers, stirring her hunger.

Then he lowered his mouth and kissed the tips of her breasts, licking and suckling until pleasure overtook her, and she began to quake with the first hint of an orgasm.

Enflamed by her moans and her hands frantically reaching for his cock, he shoved her against the tile wall and wedged his thigh between her legs, parting them for his invasion.

“You really want this?” he mumbled huskily.

“Yes, please,” she whispered, hating to beg but knowing she’d do anything now to have him.

Anything he wanted.

The thought sent terror through her, but also a tiny thrill that tripped her orgasm over the edge. She cried out, trembling as he slid his fingers inside her and stroked her deep and hard.

When he withdrew, her body protested with a moan. But a second later, she realized he’d reached into his pants on the bathroom floor for a condom, ripped open the package, and pulled it on. With a growl from deep in his throat, he ground his big body against hers, but still didn’t penetrate her, simply teased her inner thighs with his sex, stoking the flames again, arousing her to the point of nearly pleading.

He bent and suckled her nipple into his mouth again, then trailed kisses down her stomach and she realized his intention. “No, I want you,” she hissed.

Frantic for fulfillment, she grabbed his arms, pushed him against the wall, and lowered her hand around his thick hard length. His cock surged and pulsed beneath her fingers, his look feral as he lifted her and she impaled herself on him.

She wrapped her legs around him, clinging to him as he stretched and filled her, their bodies slapping the tiles as they ground together.

A million butterflies danced in her womb, as he bit her neck and pounded into her. It was fast, furious, passionate, mind-boggling in its rawness.

Everything she’d ever wanted.

He buried his head against her, nibbling at her ear, his hands cupping her ass and shoving himself so deep inside her that she cried out with the impact, felt as if he was tearing her apart, and knew that she’d be empty without him inside her if he left.

Tingling sensations spiraled through her, her body quivered, her womb clenching around him, her head spinning as another orgasm claimed her. She threw her head back in wild abandon, unashamed at the guttural shout that erupted from her.

He drove deeper, harder, faster, pushing her over the limit, then his body jerked and he growled her name as his own pleasure mingled with hers, his big body rocking with his climax.

Amazing sensations overloaded Quinton’s body, triggering a flood of emotions, and he gripped Annabelle tighter. Dammit, he didn’t want to let her go. And he sure as hell didn’t want another man having her.

He tensed, troubled by his thoughts. She wasn’t his to lose. Sex was the only thing they could have together.

Instinctively, he knew Annabelle would want more. A family.

Her thoughts fell open to him.

She cared about him, needed him, wanted him to love her. But she was scared as well. Afraid of getting hurt.

He couldn’t let her need him too much because he would have to let her go.

A man with demon blood running through his veins didn’t have the right to make promises of happily-ever-after. And what if he brought a demon child into the world?

Why the hell was he thinking such nonsense? He was a loner. When this ended, he’d return to his solitude.

But Annabelle’s pain mingled with his own, and his knees nearly buckled.

The water was turning cold, and she sagged against him, stroking his wet hair, shivering. He flipped off the water, slowly let her slide to her feet, then reached for a bath towel and dried her off. Her nipples were stiff from the cold, goose bumps dotting her beautiful skin, his love bites marring the perfect flesh.

Guilt slammed into his gut. He had bitten her like a damn animal.

Her eyes were glazed with passion, her lids drooping, but her face also looked haunted, a reminder of her anguish.

He quickly dried off, swept her into his arms, and carried her to her bed. Needing to put some distance between them, to compartmentalize, he started to walk away, but she gripped his hand.

“Please, don’t leave me.”

His throat thickened. He needed to talk to Vincent, ask him about Gryphon. Do something to find this demon.

But she tugged his hand again, and he couldn’t resist. He climbed into bed, wrapped his arms around her, and held her until she fell into a deep sleep. Even then, he lay watching her, wondering how he’d gone from a killer who’d contemplated taking her life to a man who would give his own life to save hers.

The ringing of his cell phone broke the silence. He cursed, wanting to ignore it, but he couldn’t. What if it was the police about the bombings?

He slipped from bed and retrieved his phone from the pocket of his jacket, then checked the number. Vincent.

He connected the call. “Yeah, it’s Quinton.”

“What happened last night?” Vincent asked. “According to the news report, Annabelle’s father almost set off a bomb.”

Quinton scrubbed a hand over his neck then explained what had happened. “I think the demon used Armstrong to get to me.”

Vincent sighed in agreement. “How’s she taking it?”

“She’s devastated,” he said, his gut clenching. “But her father responded to her in the hospital, hopefully a sign that he’ll recover. The staff has instructions to phone me the minute he regains consciousness so I can question him.”

“This could be a break,” Vincent said. “So how did you stop him?”

Quinton relayed the incident in detail. “I don’t think anyone saw or understood what I did.”

Vincent cursed. “Hell, Quinton, you can’t expose yourself. That could be even more dangerous.”

“Don’t you think I know that?” Quinton said in a low voice. “But what was I supposed to do? Let him blow up the room?”

A tense second passed, then Vincent spoke. “Any leads on the demon’s identity? Do you think it was Reverend Narius?”

“No. Armstrong took him hostage and planned to blow him up with him.”

“Shit. So that eliminates him as a suspect.”

“Exactly.” Quinton paced to the window, not surprised at seeing the vulture perched on the windowsill, its beady eyes staring into his own.

He snatched the sheers together, but even as he did, the monks’ warnings rose to taunt him, and he went to his bag and pulled out
Deadly Demons
.

Quinton exhaled in frustration as he flipped through the pages, searching for more information on the vulture and the Death Angel. “Listen, Vincent, at the shelter, I met this woman who said she’s a descendant of a voodoo priestess. She knew about us and our father, said that she was a witch and a demonslayer.”

Another long silence, then Vincent’s hiss. “What’s her name?”

“Shayla Larue. She was the social worker at a homeless shelter.”

“I’ll check her out,” Vincent said. “What else did she say about us?”

“Just that the demon would use Annabelle to get to me.”

Vincent grunted in acknowledgment. “I’ll pull a list of everyone who attended the fund-raiser and look for a person of interest.”

“Have someone study all the posts on that online PTS support group, too. Dr. Gryphon visited the group and is top on my list of possible suspects.” Quinton explained about the information he’d tapped from Gryphon’s mind involving his past and his research efforts.

“I’ll put someone on it ASAP,” Vincent said.

“What about a common denominator with the cities?” Quinton asked.

Vincent hesitated a minute. “All of them are historically haunted cities.”