7

Chapter Six

The next evening the stranger returned. Carmella watched as he entered the inn, his gaze catching hers immediately as he stopped at the bar once again.

Who is he? She knew Torren was in her mind, watching her, keeping track of her movements, but he hadn’t yet offered to reveal his location.

She hadn’t even bothered returning to the prison. She knew she wouldn’t find him there. Whatever game he was playing would have to be endured until he was satisfied. She had learned that a long time ago. It didn’t mean she had to like it.

The day had been a fucking washout, Carmella thought as she sat with the back of her chair braced against the wall. She had scoured the city, wondering where Torren was, and having nothing but the conversations he kept up in her head to go by. But she never sensed a strengthening in the mental link. She was starting to think he was nowhere near the city.

She glanced broodingly at the stranger who made no effort to hide his interest in her. She finished off the shot of whisky she had ordered after her meal, refusing to redirect her gaze.

Her dreams the night before had been filled with him. Stark, vivid, lust-filled dreams that left her aching, her pussy wet, her breasts sensitive. She had never had such a reaction to a man. Had never been so certain that one could stem the rising fury of need that sometimes grew inside her, tormenting her body and her mind before she found a way to push it back.

Several times throughout the day she had been forced to tamp down the overriding lust. It grew in her, like a shadow of fury that threatened to rage out of control.

She rolled the small shot glass on its end, her fingers gripping it lightly as her gaze returned to the blond-haired, blue-eyed temptation that stalked her dreams, and now her evenings. Why was he just watching her? If he was Torren’s friend, why hadn’t he made contact yet?

I’m sure he’ll let you know eventually. Amusement whispered through her mind.

Is he the one you contacted? She knew Torren could easily detect her anger. It grated on her that he refused to tell her where he was, yet trusted another instead.

And if I don’t know where I am? he asked her, his voice silky, almost…deceptive. And he didn’t say if he knew the guy or not.

I won’t know if it’s him until he gives you the information I gave him.

She sighed tiredly. Why am I getting the feeling you’re setting me up, Torren?

She couldn’t ignore it any longer. He wasn’t where he was supposed to be. His telepathy wasn’t cut off. If PSI had him, he wouldn’t have a chance of linking with her mentally. Which meant PSI didn’t have him. But neither was he helping her find him. Her frustration level, high to begin with, was only growing daily.

Have I ever hurt you, Carmella? She couldn’t ignore the affection he felt for her. The truth of his loyalty to her. It was all there. Just as it had always been.

No. She pushed her fingers restlessly through her hair, glancing back at the stranger.

I won’t start now.

Torren wouldn’t, but what about the stranger? She had to do something soon. She was becoming too frustrated, too near to losing her control. And this unknown man wasn’t helping. He made her hot. Too damned hot and in all the wrong ways.

Carmella sighed tiredly. Her temper was fraying at the edges. Ever since the first glimpse of that man the night before, she had been tormented with images of him rising over her, taking her, his hard cock driving into her repeatedly. The muscles of her cunt clenched as she fought to pull her thoughts back.

His lips quirked in wicked humor, a dark blond brow arching faintly in question as his gaze stayed on hers. Damn, he looked too sexy—too male. And clean. Son of a bitch if the man didn’t look clean. There were few in the bar that could claim that distinction, even herself.

The stranger was dressed completely in black. Black boots, jeans, shirt and leather overcoat. He looked as tough as rawhide and too tempting for his own good.

The dark clothing seemed to only further accentuate his almost white-blond hair and wicked blue eyes. His dark skin, the sardonic quirk of his lips, the well-trimmed dark gold beard and mustache all combined to make him look like a pirate. A marauder. A sexy, untamed male.

She kept her gaze on him as she stood up from her chair and began to work her way to the bar, ignoring the heated pace of her heartbeat that seemed to echo in the depths of her pussy. What was it about this man—a stranger—that affected her as no other had?

She moved through the crowded room, ignoring murmured invitations from various men as she passed, keeping her gaze on the stranger until she slid between him and the bar stool beside him.

Neither budged. Her breasts were pressed tightly against his chest as he stared down at her broodingly, the heat of his body whipping through her nipples where they pressed against the cool expanse of his leather overcoat.

“Bartender, whisky,” she gave her order as she fought to keep from panting.

As the bartender moved to fill the order she felt a wide palm at her hip. It was steady, moving no further, cupping the curve of her body with a heated caress. She raised her eyes to him.

“Who the fuck are you?” she hissed low enough that only he heard her words.

She felt like ramming her knee into the intriguing bulge between his thighs when his sensual lips tilted in a mocking smile, his hooded eyes glimmering with lustful purpose.

His head lowered, moving next to hers, his lips whispering against the sensitive lobe of her ear as he whispered, “Your most erotic fantasy.” His voice was dark, deep, a sensual rasp over her senses that sent her clit throbbing, her heart pounding. “Are you going to say no?”

Carmella’s eyes widened as the memory of her fantasy the night before surged through her mind.

Say no and I’ll let you go. It was her fantasy. Or was it?

He moved back slowly, his expression erotically intense, his lips parted just enough to make the sensual male curve a temptation she could barely deny. At her hip, his fingers flexed, stroked, his fingertips inching beneath the snug hem of her shirt at the waistband of her pants.

She flinched at the stroke of pure sensation as his fingertips smoothed against her bare flesh. Calloused. Warm. Creating an erogenous zone where none should exist.

Psychic. She knew he was, but she couldn’t sense any emanations of power at all. Carmella had a sensitive awareness for those psychic waves, yet she could detect nothing.

“I’ll do better than that,” she whispered at his ear, licking her lips, allowing the tip of her tongue to barely glance the strong line of his earlobe. “If you want it, big boy, you have to take it. Think you can?”

Before he could reply she collected her shot glass, threw back the hard liquor and moved away from him. She glanced back to see him watching her, his head lowered, his gaze brooding. The look sent an arc of pure arousal pulsing through her body and a sudden, overriding image of him doing just as she had dared him to do.

Oh, bad girl. Torren was laughing at her as she swept from the room. A challenge like that would be hard for a man to refuse. You just gave him permission to force you, Carmella.

Only if he’s man enough. She hadn’t yet found a man who could overpower her. Psychic or not.

Torren was quiet for long, intense moments.

You might get more than you bargained for. His thought was heavy with warning, and a small, thrilling spark of lust she had always felt he kept carefully hidden.

You had your chance. She threw the door open to the small suite of rooms. You wanted a bimbo, honey, instead.

The door bounced on the inner wall then swung forward again. Carmella caught it and slammed it closed before clenching her fists and fighting for control. She could feel the anger, the throttled desire and frustration building inside her. She needed a good fight but there was none available. No, she needed a good fight and a hard fuck. She trembled at the thought, the muscles of her pussy rippling.

“Where are you?” she growled as she stalked to the dingy window of the room, looking out into the darkened street with a sense of helpless rage. “I’m tired of this game, Torren.” The sound of her own voice was a comfort for her, even though it wasn’t needed for him to hear her.

If only it were a game, Carmella. His lingering regret washed through, and a frown creased her brow as she felt it. I wish it were no more than a game. Then you would find ease and I would find peace.

She laid her head against the pane of glass, ignoring her reflection as well as the regret that lay heavy in her heart.

Yeah, she agreed silently. If only it were a game.