Page 6 of Sinful Sacrifice

She uncrosses her arms and reluctantly accepts my hand.

“You try to run or scream, you’ll regret it.” I draw her to her feet.

It’s busy around us—people jogging, biking, jaywalking. I tighten my grip on hers, hoping she’ll behave. It’d be a headache, bribing or killing someone she asks for help.

We walk toward an older building I’d bet my entire stock portfolio isn’t up to code.

“Why are you doing this?” she asks, keying in the code to buzz us in. “Is this some kind of sick game you play before killing someone?”

“I don’t plan to kill you.” I crowd closer to see every number she hits. “I’m only curious.”

“Be curious about someone else.”

“Too bad. Blame yourself. You should’ve never come to the casino.”

“If you think this is my fault, you need a trip to reality land.”

“Considering what you did today, it seems you should join me.”

The door buzzes, unlocking, and I hold it open, allowing her to enter first. As soon as we’re inside, I nudge her toward the stairs. The entryway is tight and reeks of mothballs and BO. Chipped wall paint surrounds us, and locks are broken on a few doors. As we climb the cramped stairs, I can’t stop myself from staring at her ass.

It’s small yet plump.

Toned yet enough to fill my palms.

My hand tenses, urging me to smack it.

We pass two people on our way up. She doesn’t ask either for help or show any signs of distress. But from the way they lower their gazes to the floor, I doubt they’d help her even if she asked.

We stop on the fifth floor and pass two doors before reaching hers. As soon as she unlocks the door, I follow her inside. Good thing she’s the size of a bite-size Snickers. The place is as tight as a hamster cage.

Not that I expected anything lavish. Her father is a giant piece of shit and can’t pay his debts.

While small, the apartment is clean and decently furnished. Pippa tosses her keys on the narrow kitchen counter as I shut and lock the door.

Leaning back on my heels, I look around. Tokens of her personality litter the place, giving away hints of who she is. A hideous purple couch, colorful pillows, mismatched kitchen stools, and so many family photos.

I pick up a framed photo from a small end table. It’s a young girl, cheesing for the camera, front teeth missing, wearing a tutu.

I pick up another.

And another.

All while her gaze stays glued to me.

“You dance?” I ask.

She shyly bites into her lower lip. “Yes.”

“Ballet?” I return the frame to its place.

“Since I was three.”

I collapse on her stiff couch and drag my gaze down her petite body. Desire rushes through me like a drug.

I want to taste every inch of her skin.

I know it’d taste sweet.

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