Lover Unleashed (Black Dagger Brotherhood #9) - J. R. Ward Page 0,79

telling how this was going to go.

Keeping her in his hold, he sat down in front of the computer, and angled them so she could see the monitor. When she seemed more interested in staring at him, he didn’t mind in the slightest—but it was hardly conducive to concentration. Or the reason he’d gotten her out of that bed.

“Payne,” he said.

“What?”

Christ, that husky voice of hers. The damn thing was capable of ripping through him like a knife and making him like the bite of pain that came along with the wounding: To want her as he did and restrain himself was an agonizing pleasure that was somehow better than the best sex he’d ever had.

It was an antici-gasm at its finest.

“You’re supposed to be looking at the monitor,” he said as he brushed her cheek.

“I’d rather stare at you.”

“Oh, yeah . . . ?” As his voice grew as husky as hers, he knew it was time for some internal dialogue along the lines of oh-no-you-don’t-big-boy.

But damn.

“You make me feel something all over my body. Even in my legs.”

Well, sexual attraction would do that to someone. His circuits were sure as hell lit up like Manhattan at midnight.

Except there was a larger purpose to this Santa’s-lap routine, something that was so much more important than a quickie . . . or even a session that lasted a week, or a month, or God save them both, a year. It was about a lifetime. Hers.

“How about you look at the computer for a little bit, and then you can stare at me all you like?”

“All right.”

When she didn’t glance away from his face, he cleared his throat. “The computer, bambina.”

“Italian?”

“On my mother’s side.”

“And as for your father’s?”

He shrugged. “Never met him, so I couldn’t tell you.”

“Your sire was unknown?”

“Yup, pretty much.” Manny put his forefinger under her chin and tilted her head toward the computer. “Look.”

He tapped the monitor and knew when she focused properly because she frowned, her dark brows going down low over her diamond eyes.

“This is a friend of mine—Paul.” Manny did nothing to keep the pride out of his voice. “He was also a patient of mine. He kicks ass . . . and he’s been in that wheelchair for years.”

At first, Payne was not sure exactly what the image was. . . . It was moving; that was for certain. And it appeared to be—Wait. That was a human, and he was sitting in some kind of contraption that rolled o’er the ground. To ambulate, he pumped with his great arms, his face in a grimace, his concentration as fierce as any warrior’s would be in the height of battle.

Behind him, there was a field of three other men in similar mechanicals, and they were all fixated on him as if trying to close the e’er-widening distance betwixt them and their leader.

“Is it . . . a race?” she asked.

“That’s the Boston Marathon, wheelchair division. Paul’s coming up Heartbreak Hill, which is the hardest part.”

“He’s ahead of the others.”

“Wait for it—he’s only getting started. He didn’t just win that race.... He snapped it in half on his knee and lit it on fire.”

They watched the man win by a tremendous margin, his huge arms going like the wind, his chest pumping, the crowd on either side of the road roaring in support. As he broke through a ribbon, a stunning woman ran up and the pair embraced.

And in the human female’s arms? A babe with the same coloring as the man.

Payne’s healer leaned forward and moved a little black instrument around on the desk to change the picture on the screen. Gone was the moving image. . . . In its place was a static portrait of the man smiling. He was very handsome and glowed with health, and by his side were the same red-haired woman and that young with his blue eyes.

The man was still sitting down, and the chair he was on was more substantial than that which he had competed in—in fact it was much like the one Jane had brought in. His legs were out of proportion to the rest of him, small and tucked away beneath the seat, but you didn’t notice that—or even his rolling apparatus. You only saw the fierce strength and intelligence.

Payne reached out to the screen and touched the face of the man. “How long . . . ?” she asked hoarsely.

“Has he been paralyzed? About ten years or so. He was on his touring