Page 18 of The Sinner's Touch

“So, you want me to shove a plug up your ass, Angel baby? Is that what gets you off these days?”

She giggled at his obvious embarrassment. “You’re being a prude, Kade.”

“Prude?” Kade stalked toward her, her laughter dying and morphing into alarm. “I’m a prude, am I?” She scootedbackward on the bed to get away, but he caught her foot and dragged her down, his body pinning her in place. “Prude?”

“Let me go, Kade.” Images flooded her vision, of her tied down to the bed, Kade standing over her, doing so many things to her. She tried to drown them out, but her body was reacting to his, aching to be touched again. It remembered the feel of his hands tracing slow, lazy circles over every inch of it. It remembered the delicious ache that came with his kisses.

“I don’t want to.” His lips found her jawline, and she jerked, shocked by the searing heat that invaded her at the simple touch. He worked his way up to her ear, nibbling on the sensitive lobe. She’d never gotten them pierced. He’d often teased her about it. She had an insane fear of needles and had never been able to purposefully stab herself. His teeth tugged at the lobe, and it went straight down to her girl parts. Shit, how could he make her respond like this after all these years?

She pushed against him, hard. “Get off, Kade. Now.”

He raised his head and looked down at her. His eyes burned with lust and need. Her breath caught, but she manned up. She wouldn’t let him hurt her again. “Get out.”

Kade let out a strangled breath. She glared up at him like he was some vile bug who needed squashing even as her body arched into his touch.

She hated him. It sobered him.

What the ever-loving fucking hell was he doing?

Damned if he knew.

He pushed off her and walked away, closing the door behind him. Walking away, at least, was something he was good at.

He needed a distraction, so he pulled out his phone and waited for his brother to answer.

“Yo.” Nik’s sleepy voice rolled through the phone. “Everything okay?”

“What the fuck is in your closet, and what the hell isFifty Shades of Grey?”

CHAPTER SEVEN

He set the six pack of Corona along with his other bags on the table and kicked off his shoes. The beers were well past hot by now, but it couldn’t be helped. It had been a long night. His small apartment over the garage smelled of sweat and old pizza. He hadn’t cleaned it in over a week. His mother would be appalled. Thankfully, she lived three thousand miles away in a small town in California. Otherwise, he’d have to suffer through her nagging.

He flipped the TV on and powered up his laptop. He needed to check a few things. The biggest story on the news right now was the Boston madman, as they’d taken to calling him. He chuckled. Madman. He was a madman because he didn’t follow a pattern. It drove the police and the FBI more than a little crazy, which suited him just fine.

The image displayed on the screen confirmed his suspicions. The angel in the alleyway had gotten a good look at him. His face was displayed in all its digital glory for everyone to see. Not that it would do any of them a bit of damn good. He’d erased his real name from public records many years ago and stayed off the grid. His family would recognize him, of course, but they never bothered to watch a television. He wasn’t concerned.

He walked to the kitchen and took out a saucepot. He dumped a cold can of soup into it. He was starved after his night of investigation.

And the police thought they were the only ones who knew how to track down leads. He smirked as he found a clean bowl. That FBI agent in particular rubbed him the wrong way. He seemed to like to strut for the cameras, even though he had no real answers to give.

Manners. The man needed manners. One didn’t speak unless one had something of worth to say. It was the first thing he should have been taught.

The image of the redhead popped up on the TV screen, and he paused, studying her. He’d already researched her. It was easy enough. Her name was listed on the bar’s website. After that, he’d simply hacked the necessary servers and dug up everything there was to know about Angelique Lemoraux. Stripper turned bartender. The DMV had given him her address, and he’d gone over to her apartment to inspect it.

She was a student at Boston University, working toward a business degree. From the proposal on her laptop, it looked like she wanted to open her own bar. Sadly, those plans would be left unfulfilled. He had plans of his own for the beautiful angel who had fallen right into his lap. Getting her away from Agent Pretty Boy might take some doing, though. Especially since they’d moved her to some big high-rise downtown. Not that he wouldn’t; it would just take a little more planning on the logistical side of things.

The soup bubbled, and he poured it into the bowl, replacing the pot on the blazing stove eye with a teapot before heading to his favorite La-Z-Boy recliner propped to the right of the TV. Damn, but his feet hurt tonight. The aromatic tomato soup tickled his nose as he drank from the bowl. The hot liquid sliddown his throat much the same way a good shot of liquor would. The burn was delicious.

He turned the volume of the TV down and relished the quiet of the countryside. After being in the city for so long tonight, he needed to relax and let the solitude calm him. He closed his eyes, replaying the utter shock on her face. There wasn’t any fear that he saw, only shock. None of his girls looked at him like that. They were always terrified, but not Angel. She was exactly what he’d been searching for. His piece de résistance.

Not that terror wasn’t pleasant. It was usually the way he liked his women staring up at him.

But he had to admit to himself he’d been caught off guard by the bartender. She’d been bold. No running, no screaming, just a steady gaze. It fascinated him. More so than any of the others. She would be hiscoup de gracehere in Boston. Once he finished with this city, he’d go vacation somewhere warm. Maybe Barbados. It was always wonderful this time of year.

He finished his soup and put the bowl in the scarred farmer’s sink. The teapot hadn’t squalled yet, so he put the beer in the fridge and collected his shopping bags. Making his way down the hall to the bathroom, he yawned. The small room blazed to life with a flick of the switch, bathing the room in harsh yellow light.

The cracked mirror showed him the same face he’d seen every day for the last sixteen years. One tiny scar marred the image. His true face had come into focus on the day he received that scar sixteen years ago. She’d been thirteen, his first. The sound of her screams echoed in his head every minute of every day. He’d never looked at himself the same since.

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