Page 27 of Price of Angels

“It’s all I have to give.” She didn’t break eye contact, her earnest gaze absolutely tragic. “Please. I don’t have anyone else to go to. I know it’s not much” – she gestured to herself – “but I…” She didn’t finish. What else could she say?

He studied her a long moment: the shadowed view up her short skirt to the red panties beneath; the full swell of her breasts against the neckline of the tank top; the sharp inward flare of her waist; the shape of her lips. Yes, he wanted her, because he was a man, and she was a young, beautiful girl. It was only natural.

“Come here.” He flicked two fingers in command.

She set the sloppy coffee mug on the table and rose, coming to him with well-shielded trepidation.

He opened his knees, giving her a little space to stand between, and he sat forward, catching her hand and drawing her down, so she was bent at the waist, so he could see all the way down into her shirt, the gooseflesh across the tops of her breasts.

Michael took her face in one hand, fingers pressed to her jaw. Brought her in close enough to feel her breath against his lips. “That’s a real good way,” he said slowly, “to get your brains raped out, offering yourself up like that.”

She smiled, sadly. “My whole life has been one long rape. Nothing you could do to me would compare, Michael.”

The thought was thrilling. He could throw her down right here on the rug, mount her, and she wouldn’t resist.

But it horrified him, too.

“You’re not afraid of me,” he said, and it wasn’t a question.

“No,” she said. “I think you’re beautiful.”

They were almost his undoing, those particular words. He stared at her face, the open pleading and offering in her expression, and he knew she meant what she was saying. That he could do whatever he wanted with her. And that she did find him beautiful, whatever her reasons.

In a rare spark of weakness, he let himself entertain the idea. Maybe she didn’t want him, but there was at least fascination on her part. Admiration. And there was no fear. She would lie down willingly beneath him, and she wouldn’t be one of those scared, anxious groupies he hated. She was young, and soft in all the right places, and he wanted to feel her skin against his hands.

And if he gave into the sudden, intense urge, he’d owe her a few murders, wouldn’t he? That was her bargain. Her body for his blade. A fair trade, and then their separate ways.

Maybe it was worth it. Ghost hadn’t made anything official with the prospective dealers yet. He wouldn’t miss them; didn’t need them. Maybe a night or two with a willing, beautiful girl would be worth whatever repercussions he’d face afterward.

He had no memories, after all, of ever bedding anyone who’d wanted to be under him.

As inducement, Holly pulled gently back from him, straightening, hands going to the hem of her shirt. She peeled it up, and over her head, back arching as she lifted it clear, and then dropped it to the floor, rib bones pressing at her thin white skin, smooth muscles of her abdomen stretching.

Her breasts were plump perfection inside her red bra, full and straining at the cups. He could see the hard round buttons of her nipples, as the cold air swept across her skin.

She unfastened the skirt, and worked it off her hips, one at a time, swaying back and forth to aid the tight denim in its descent. She stepped out of it delicately, left it on the rug behind her. The panties were the same bright red as the bra, a slick satin that only half-covered the rounded globes of her bottom. The lingerie had cost more than a girl in her condition could afford, he could tell. She’d splurged. She’d bought it for this moment, this transaction, so he’d want her.

He should stop her, he decided, because she was so frightened her teeth were chattering. But he sat leaning against the back of the chair, unmoving, as she urged his knees together and then settled onto his lap, straddling his legs. She moved in close, leaned forward and put her hands on the back of the chair on either side of his head. Her breasts were right there; he could drop his face and bury it between them.

She wasn’t taunting him. It didn’t feel like that. She was encouraging. And she might have been enthralled, and she might not have hated the idea, and she might have let him do whatever he wanted…butletwas a long way fromwant. And he could smell the acrid burn of fear along her skin. Could feel the trembling in every muscle and every inch of her.

Michael made his decision, and once he’d made it, he had the will to execute it to the letter.

He caught her around the waist with one arm, and surged to his feet.

She gasped. “What–” Her question became another gasp as he swung her up into his arms and carried her toward the bed.

Catching his meaning, she slipped her arms around his neck, leaned into his chest as he walked.

“Pull that back,” he instructed, when they reached the side of the bed.

She took the covers in-hand and jerked them loose from the pillows, tossed them aside.

Michael laid her down on the sheets…and then let go of her, righted, pulled the covers up and over her and tucked them tight beneath her chin in a harsh imitation of a mother putting her child to bed.

Holly struggled to sit up. “What?” she repeated. “What are you–”

But Michael was walking back to the sofa, picking up her coffee, bringing it back to her. The spills were drying down the sides, gummy against his hand. “Here.” He held it toward her. “Drink this. You’re freezing.”

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