And back then... he hadn't wanted it, had learned to fear that very arousal.
He tried to focus his mind on the present, tried to keep himself in his bathroom, but the past sucked him down...
He was back in the cell, shackled, his body not his own. He felt the Mistress's hands, smelled the salve she had to put on him before she could get the erection she needed. And then she was riding him, pumping until she got off. After that, the biting and the drinking assaulted him as she fed from his veins.
It all came back. The rapes. The humiliation. The decades of abuse until he lost any conception of time, until he was nothing, all but dead except for the incessant beating of his heart and the rote suck and push of his lungs.
He heard a weird sound. Realized he was moaning.
Oh... Bella.
He wiped his forehead on his biceps. Bella. God, she made him so ashamed of his scars and his ugliness, his ruined appearance and his black, nasty nature.
At the party she'd effortlessly talked to his brothers and the females, smiling, laughing. She had a charm and an easiness about her that spoke of the comfortable life she'd led. She'd probably never known a mean word or an unkind deed. She'd certainly never shown cruelty or harshness to another. She was a female of worth, not at all like the trashy, angry humans he'd been drinking from.
He hadn't believed her when she'd told him she wanted to lie with him, but she had. That was what all her silky wetness had meant. Females could lie about a lot of things, but not that. Never that.
Zsadist shuddered. When he'd had her bent over and was touching her breasts, he'd planned on stopping in spite of what he'd said. He'd figured he'd scare her into leaving him alone, overwhelm her a little before sending her along her way.
Except she actually had wanted him.
He replayed what it had been like to dive in between her thighs. She'd been so... soft. So incredibly warm and smooth and slick. The first he had touched who had been like that for him. He'd had no idea what to do, but then from out of his confusion, the Mistress had come back to him. He'd seen her face and felt her body on top of his.
The Mistress had always been turned-on when she'd come to him, and she'd taken great pains to make sure he knew it, though she'd never made him touch her with his hands. She'd been smart. After everything she'd done to him, if he'd been able to get at her, he'd have torn her apart like a rabid animal, and they'd both known it. The caged danger he'd represented had thrilled her.
He thought of Bella's attraction to him. It was based on the same thing, wasn't it? Power-trip sex. The shackled savage used for pleasure.
Or in Bella's case, the dangerous male used for adventure.
His stomach heaved again and he lurched over the toilet.
"I thought you were just being cruel," Bella said from behind him. "I didn't know I actually made you sick."
Fuck. He hadn't locked the door.
It had never dawned on him she'd come back.
Bella wrapped her arms around herself. Of all the things she could have dreamed up, this pushed the fiction envelope. Zsadist was sprawled half-naked in front of a toilet, his shirt wrapped around his hand, the dry heaves making him twitch.
While he cursed, she stared at his body. Dear lord, his back. The broad expanse was streaked with scars, evidence of a past whipping that, like his face, had somehow not healed smoothly. Although how that had happened she couldn't guess.
"Why are you in my room again?" he asked, voice echoing around the porcelain rim.
"I, ah, I wanted to yell at you."
"Mind if I finish throwing up first?" Water rushed and gurgled as he flushed.
"Are you okay?"
"Yeah, this is just loads of fun."
She came into the bathroom and had a brief impression that it was very clean, very white, and totally impersonal.
In the blink of an eye, Zsadist was up on his feet and facing her.
She swallowed a gasp.
Though clearly powerful, his muscles stood out in stark relief, the individual fibers striated and visible. For a warrior, for any male, he was thin, too thin. Frankly he was close to starving. And he was scarred on the front, though only in two places; over his left pectoral and on his right shoulder. Both his nipples were