The Hell Catcher moved like a bolt of lightning. Gripping her upper arm, he spun her back around. Before she had a chance to react to this, he was on her, reaching around to her backside with his other hand.
Heavy and ham-like came the smack across the girl’s tight, pert ass cheeks.
I gasped in sympathy, gulping air in a quick reverse hiccup. My body tense as a cable, I waited for her next move. Would she slap him, run away, or scream? Others had seen it, too, but no one dared to react.
The hand was still there, insolent, possessive. He wasn’t relenting, wasn’t backing down. A moment later, the farmer’s daughter blinked. When the pretty blue eyes reopened, they were moist, liquid.
“Rene,” she purred, pressing herself to his chest. “Forgive me.”
Rene took both of her pigtails in his hand and used them as a handy means to yank her head smartly for his kiss that was obviously hard and punishing. She made no complaint, allowing him full access to her ruby lips along with anything else he might desire. Both his hands were on her sides now, running down the length of her like she was some piece of merchandise he was checking over.
When he finally released her, she was moaning softly, craving more.
“Later,” he promised, pressing his index finger between her lips where his tongue had been a moment ago. “After the belt.”
The girl shuddered head to toe. I looked at the thick leather at his waist strung through the denim loops. Did he intend to beat her?
“Mmm,” she purred, her eyes surrendering to his piercing gaze as he let her suckle at his finger for a while.
“In the toilet,” he told her, his voice barely audible. “You will suck for money.”
Now it was my turn to shudder. He was talking about prostitution. This sweet, innocent little girl was going to be forced to fellate strangers for cash. In the men’s room of an airport. On her knees on the cold tile.
I wanted to protest, but nothing was coming out of my mouth. The fact that between my legs, underneath my jeans I was now wet, and ready myself wasn’t helping my case any.
“Please empty your pockets, sir,” said the TSA officer to Rene.
He pulled a wallet from his jeans and turned to me, a big fat grin on his face. Had he read my mind—sensed my indignance, my secret need?
I scowled at him as convincingly as possible. He just chuckled, winking as the guard waved him through the metal detector. The girl, curious, looked over her shoulder. Seeing it was another woman, she made cat’s eyes at me.
Keep away, the eyes said. I’m the only whore he needs.
How pathetic. Blowing strands of unruly, coal-black hair from my face, I tossed my purse onto the conveyor belt. Whether it was my attitude or just the fact that I had on my tightest jeans, I was promptly selected for hand search.
“Please step over here, ma’am, and take off your shoes.”
I slipped off the sneakers, baring both my feet to the little bald man with the wand. Before he asked, I put out my arms. I’m not afraid of men—never have been. My Daddy called me Raven not just because of my hair, but because of my sharp claws and piercing green eyes. Single minded and predatory, as he liked to put it in his inimitable way.
Well, I didn’t feel so predatory now. Two years into my venture capital enterprise in the commodities market and I was teetering on the edge of bankruptcy, several mil in the red, with a list of creditors that included by way of third party proxy (and herein lay the main reason for my quick getaway from Chicago to New York) one Silvio Galentano, head of the Galentano crime family.
“They’re real,” I pushed out my D cups, noticing how his eyes kept focusing on the payoff part of my torso. "If you want to check.”