Naked in Death - J. D. Robb [24]
“How does it feel?”
“Soft,” she murmured. “You touch, Daddy. Feel how soft.”
He laid a hand over hers, felt himself harden satisfactorily as he slipped a finger inside her. It would be quick, for both of them.
“Unbutton your dress,” he ordered, and continued to manipulate her as she opened it from its prim collar down. “Turn over.”
When she did, he brought his hand down on her pert bottom in smart slaps that reddened the creamy flesh while she whimpered in programmed response.
It didn’t matter if he hurt her or not. She’d sold herself to him.
“That’s a good girl.” He was fully erect now, beginning to throb. Still, his movements were careful and precise as he undressed. Naked, he straddled her, slipped his hands beneath her so that he could squeeze her breasts. So young, he thought, and let himself shudder from the pleasure of flesh that had yet to need refining.
“Daddy’s going to show you how he rewards good girls.”
He wanted her to take him into her mouth, but couldn’t risk it. The birth control her file listed she used would eradicate his sperm vaginally, but not orally.
Instead, he vaulted up her hips, taking the time to stroke his hands over that firm, young flesh as he drove himself into her.
He was rougher than either of them expected. After that first violent thrust, he held himself back. He had no wish to hurt her to the point where she would cry out. Though in a place such as this, he doubted anyone would notice or care.
Still, she was rather charmingly unskilled and naive. He settled on a slower, more gentle rhythm, which he discovered drew out his own pleasure.
She moved well, meeting him, matching him. Unless he was very mistaken, not all her groans and cries were simulated. He felt her tense, shudder, and he smiled, pleased that he’d been able to bring a whore to a genuine climax.
He closed his eyes and let himself come.
She sighed and cuddled into one of the pillows. It had been good, much, much better than she’d expected. And she hoped she’d found another regular.
“Was I a good girl, Daddy?”
“A very, very good girl. But we’re not done. Roll over.”
As she shifted, he rose and moved out of camera range. “Are we going to watch the video, Daddy?”
He only shook his head.
Remembering her role, she pouted. “I like videos. We can watch, and then you can show me how to be a good girl again.” She smiled at him, hoping for a bonus. “I could touch you this time. I’d like to touch you.”
He smiled and took the SIG 210 with silencer out of his coat pocket. He watched her blink in curiosity as he aimed the gun.
“What’s that? Is it a toy for me to play with?”
He shot her in the head first, the weapon barely making more than a pop as she jerked back. Coolly, he shot again, between those young, firm breasts, and last, as the silencer eroded, into her smooth, bare pubis.
Switching the camera off, he arranged her carefully among blood-soaked pillows and soiled, smiling animals while she stared up at him in wide-eyed surprise.
“It was no life for a young girl,” he told her gently, then went back to the camera to record the last scene.
chapter five
All Eve wanted was a candy bar. She’d spent most of the day testifying in court, and her lunch break had been eaten up by a call from a snitch that had cost her fifty dollars and gained her a slim lead on a smuggling case that had resulted in two homicides, which she’d been beating her head against for two months.
All she wanted was a quick hit of sugar substitute before she headed home to prep for her seven o’clock meeting with Roarke.
She could have zipped through any number of drive-through InstaStores, but she preferred the little deli on the corner of West Seventy-eighth—despite, or perhaps because of the fact that it was owned and run by Francois, a rude, snake-eyed refugee who’d fled to America after the Social Reform Army had overthrown the French government some forty years before.
He hated America and Americans, and the SRA had been dispatched within six months of the coup, but