Anya plopped on the cream-colored leather couch as if she hadn't a care. With a blissful sigh, she removed her stolen gloves, followed by her boots, revealing pretty white leggings. She tossed both aside. Next she removed her coat—revealing a white lace bra.
His eyes nearly popped out of his head. "That is what you have been wearing all day?"
She grinned wickedly. "Yes. Do you like?"
His cock swelled to life. Again. This time thicker, fuller. Harder, hotter. She was sexier now than when she'd worn the maid's uniform—and she'd nearly felled him then. Thank the gods he hadn't known what little she'd worn underneath. He might have killed everyone who looked at her, and then attacked her there in the snow.
He couldn't tear his gaze away from her. Her stomach was flat and the color of cream, her navel a sensual feast to his eyes. Her breasts were full and ripe, the pink nipples hazily visible and oh so hard. The leggings conformed to her body like a second skin.
"Well? Do you like?" she repeated, stretching out. Her feet were bare, the pretty nails glittering in the light. "You could have seen this and more earlier, but you were too busy being stubborn. Don't be stubborn this time."
"You are beautiful, Anya."
"Come over here and kiss me, then," she beseeched huskily.
"I can't," he croaked out.
"Why not?" She ran a fingertip down her stomach, around her navel. "It's not like I'm asking you to screw me. Just kiss and touch me a little. And FYI, you should know this is the last time I'm going to offer myself to you. Your continued rejection is screwing with my confidence."
A roar sounded in his head. Not touch her? Not kiss her? "Why not more than kissing and touching?"
"Because." She crossed her arms over her middle, smashing her breasts together.
Holy gods. "Answer me."
"Why should I? You rarely answer me." Again she ran a fingertip down the planes of her stomach.
His gaze followed the action. He swallowed a sudden lump in his throat. She would give herself to other men, but not him. The realization sunk in, and he ground his teeth together. Him, she would only allow to kiss her. He wasn't good enough for anything else.
He wanted to hate her for that, but he'd done this to himself. He'd purposefully carved himself so that women would not want him. And though she obviously found him lacking, he still sought to save her life. "We need to discuss something, Anya."
"What? The best way to move your tongue?"
"The key. Give me the key Cronus wants, and I'll do anything you want, kiss you however you want me to."
Color leached from her cheeks. "Hell, no. I don't want you that badly."
He'd known that, but hearing her say it cut deeply. "Giving up the key will save your life."
"Without the key, my life isn't worth living. Now, I don't want to talk about it anymore. I want to talk about us."
"There can be no us until you give me that key."
"The key is mine," she shouted, "and I will never give it up. Do you understand? Never! I would rather die."
"You will die if you don't. You are forcing my hand, Anya."
"What, you plan to steal it?"
He didn't answer.
"You'll regret it if you try."
Still no response.
"Forget the key! We were having fun and could be having more fun right now."
"Cronus came to me, threatened those I love. I am out of time, Anya. I am to bring him the key or you. I would rather bring the key."
The pulse in her neck fluttered riotously. "When did he come to you?"
"Before we went shopping," he admitted.
"That's why you went so easily. You thought to sweeten me up so I'd just hand the key over." She laughed bitterly. "Or maybe you thought I'd slip and tell you where it is and you'd steal it. So much for your lofty principles."
"Which is it to be? You or the key?"
"Me." She raised her chin. "I told you. I will not part with the key."
"Anya," he said, hating himself. Hating Cronus. Hating even the woman he was trying to save. She made him feel. Now, more than ever, emotions were his enemy. "This is your last warning."
"Lucien, I can't give it up." Tears filled her eyes. "I can't."
Those tears…"Why?"
"I just can't. I won't."
Then there was nothing more for him to say. Do it. End it. It is time. "Here is your warning. I will make this quick. Kill you first. Take your soul after." He flashed to her, was straddling her hips in the next instant, his daggers withdrawn and cradled in his hands, raised, ready to strike.
Those teary eyes went wide with shock.
"I am sorry," he said, and struck.
CHAPTER NINE
PARIS ROAMED THE PAVED STREETS of Athens as the sun shone bright and golden. The air was peaceful, serene, and the white-washed, Old-World sights riveting. Gentle waves from the sea only a short distance away added the perfect soundtrack.
He should have been preparing for his upcoming trip to the States.
He wasn't.
He was looking for a woman, any woman, who would have him. But no matter what he did or said, the females of Greece weren't responding to him as the females of Budapest—hell, as the females everywhere else on earth—had.
He didn't understand it, either. His physical appearance had not changed. He was a handsome motherfucker. His demeanor had not changed. He was the most charming person he knew. Nothing about him had changed. Yet before traveling here, he'd had only to cast his gaze upon a woman to have her stripping, readying herself for his pleasure. Here, nothing. Nada.
Women of every age, size and color treated him like a leper.
Sadly, at this point, all he needed was five minutes and a pair of spread legs.
Without sex, he weakened. Became vulnerable and unable to defend himself from Hunters and their vicious attacks.
Had it been possible, he would have chosen one woman, married her and taken her with him everywhere, enjoying her and her alone. But apart from the obstacle of human women's mortality, the demon inside him would allow no such thing. Once he'd slept with a woman, he couldn't get hard for her again. No matter how much he wanted to be with her.
It was why he'd stopped trying for anything more than a single night. To stay alive, he would have to cheat on a wife constantly, and he refused to do such a thing.
Someone look at me, want me. If he couldn't find a female…the things he was forced to do sickened him.
Not rape, please not rape, but the demon had no gender preference. Paris did. Paris only wanted women. His stomach cramped as memories tried to fill his mind. Hated memories. He clenched his teeth in an effort to halt them.
Find a prostitute, Promiscuity suggested, needing sex as much as he did.
Tried. It's as if they're hiding from me. Paris actually preferred prostitutes. They both got something out of the deal, and his lover didn't leave with expectations of a repeat performance.
A brunette sauntered down the sidewalk across from him. Female. He scented her before he saw her, turning his head to draw in more of her sweet feminine fragrance. She'll do.
He was halfway to her before he realized he'd taken a single step. "Excuse me," he called when he reached her. Desperation laced his tone.
Her gaze slid to him. Appreciation curtained her features, but that was it. Nothing more. No trancelike desire. Up close, he could see strands of silver in her hair and the age lines around her eyes.
Didn't matter. His mouth watered for her.
"Yes," she said in heavily accented English, not slowing.
Usually they stopped, already desperate to touch him. What made these Greek females different? "Would you like to…" Shit. He couldn't ask her to sleep with him, not right away. She'd probably balk. "Would you like to have dinner with me?"