L.L. Foster - The Acceptance

His tongue pushed past her lips. One of his hands went to her tush and, in a display of his awesome strength, he lifted her off her feet, meshing their lower bodies, letting her feel the steel of his erection.

“Luther?” Her head swam, her blood burned. And at the root of all sensation was a powerful need that she didn’t know how to appease.

“God, woman, you make me insane.”

He kissed her more gently this time, again using his tongue to taste her deeply, slowly. So hot.

But by small degrees, he left her, a wet kiss, a small lick, a kiss to the corner of her mouth—and he was gone.

Eyelids heavy and heart thumping, Gaby tried to focus beyond the haze of desire. “Luther?” she said again.

He let out a long, aggrieved breath. “I hate myself for saying this, but the timing is off for what I want to do. And history being what it is, that makes me wonder if you distracted me on purpose.”

A splash of ice water couldn’t have done more to cool her ardor, or bring her out of the sensual fog. Arms crossing under her breasts, Gaby struck an obstinate pose. “Come again?”

Cynical and bitter, Luther ran both hands through his hair. “Enough, Gaby. If after I’ve gotten some answers, you want to pick up where we left off, you know I’m more than willing.”

“Ha!”

His teeth locked and his eyes burned. “But first , I have questions, and God help you, you will answer them.”

She turned on her heel and started away.

“I’ll arrest you.”

That brought her back around. “For what?”

He closed the small space she’d just gained. “I have a firsthand account of you attacking Carver with a knife.”

That had to be a lie. No one had seen her go near Carver. She’d made sure of it. Confidence wavering, she went on tiptoe to say into his face, “Bullshit.”

He didn’t withdraw, and this close, Gaby saw the golden flecks in his brown eyes sparking with ire and determination.

His aura, usually the golden hue of great control, now wavered with quick-tempered red, swirling around Gaby, engulfing her.

Luther meant business, no doubt about it.

“You have the knife. I have a dead prostitute sliced up and thrown in the river. Put those three things together, and you’re the closest lead I have.”

Damn. It did sound plausible. If she didn’t know herself, she’d be looking at her as a suspect, too.

Taking advantage of her moment of uncertainty, Luther cupped her chin. “Trust me, Gaby. I’ll either get my answers, or I’ll haul your skinny ass to the station tonight. Late as it is, you won’t be out of there until morning, at the earliest. Longer, if someone other than me decides you sound guilty as hell.”

An invisible fist squeezed her windpipe. She couldn’t swallow, could barely breathe. Giving herself over to Luther’s dark gaze, she asked simply, “Do you believe I killed her?”

“No.”

Relief washed over her. “Then—”

“But I think you can tell me things. And Gaby?” He kissed her again. “You will. Right now.”

Oren watched the skinny girl and the tall man exchange money, whisper, and finally make off for their trick.

So she was a whore, like the others. Somehow, he hadn’t figured her for that type. She was too . . . off-putting to be in the flesh trade. And too skinny. Too plain.

In his experience, even the homeliest whores had curves. Big chests and bigger posteriors, welcoming smiles and tired eyes. They wore revealing clothes and painted themselves to advertise their trade.

Not that woman.

No, her eyes weren’t tired at all. They were laser sharp and she just watched everyone and everything with a hatred that cut clean.

Maybe it was a specialty of hers, that antagonistic attitude. Did men pay her extra for it?

Did she, like he, favor dominance?

Interesting. Oren smiled at the thought.

Perhaps later, when the need arose again, he’d take her and see just how well she fared as a supplicant. Breaking someone as strong-willed as her would last longer, and provide extra enjoyment.

But for now . . . yes, the youngest of the whores finally finished her duty with her most recent john and returned outside.

With the pimp otherwise occupied and the skinny watchdog off with her own trick, Oren finally had his chance. He waited near the corner, out of sight, until she strolled toward him.

“Excuse me?”

She looked up, tipped her head at the sight of him, and frowned. “Hello.”

Putting just the right quaver in his voice, Oren said, “Could you . . . you help me? Please?”

She looked behind her, fretted, and then came toward him. “Help you how? What are you doin’ out this time of night? You don’t look like you belong around here.”

“I don’t. I’m lost, and I’m scared.” He let his bottom lip tremble. “I want to go home.”

“Shhh, now. It’s okay.”

She started to touch the hat on his head, and Oren stepped out of reach.

Luckily, she read that as fear. “I’m Bliss. What’s your name?”

Oren thought quickly, and said, “Matt.”

“How old are ya, Matt?”

“Twelve.” He shuffled his feet, peeked at her from under the brim of his cap. “I was with my older brother at a party, but I got mad at him and decided to walk home. Now I’m lost and my mom will kill me if she finds out.”

The stupid cow melted with sympathy. “Well, we won’t let that happen, will we? If you want to come with me, we can call your brother and—”

“No!” Covering up, Oren said, “I don’t know his number. But he’s probably still at the party. If you walk me back there, I can pay you. I promise.”

“You don’t need to do that.”

“But I want to. We’re rich. My brother throws away money. He’ll give you some, I swear. He doesn’t want my parents to find out that he let me leave, or he’ll be in trouble, too.”

Undecided, Bliss again looked around the building and down the street. She turned back to him. “I guess it’d be okay. Is it very far away?”

Oren pointed. “It’s down that way. I just don’t want to go back by myself.”

She held out her hand. “Okay then, Matt. We’ll go together.”

Grinning to himself, Oren slipped his hand in hers. “Thank you.” The anticipation sparked and ignited, making him giddy. He reached into his pocket with his free hand and fingered the syringe that made compliance so easy.

Not yet. Not yet.

He had to get her closer to the plain sedan he drove for just these occasions.

“You okay, little buddy?”

“Yes.” Excitement made his voice croak, and he bit his lip, trying to contain himself. His breathing deepened. His palms got sweaty.

God, he loved this part the most. He couldn’t hold back. He saw the car, was within a few feet of it. “This way.”

As they walked past the vehicle, Oren observed the surrounding area.

He saw no one. They were alone.

Empty buildings towered around them, ready to muffle the screams sure to come. Inflamed, aroused, he withdrew the syringe and flicked off the cap. It hit the pavement with a near silent ping.

Yes, yes, yes.

Shaking with excitement, Oren tugged on Bliss’s soft hand. “Oh, Bliss?” he teased in a singsong voice.

She turned to look at him. “Hmmm?”

Vicious, hard and fast, Oren jabbed the needle into the base of her throat, just above her collarbone.

With a high-pitched scream, she flailed back, staring at him in blank astonishment. She tried to look down at the needle protruding from her neck, then just as quickly began to stagger. “Wha . . . ?”

Oh, God, the look of utter shock on her stupid face.

The dawning horror in her big blue eyes.