Her neck arched into his hand without her realizing it, and her insides turned to molten lava. The warming in her stomach spread lower, her body relaxing and tensing at the same time.
“Those men—those boys—you’ve allowed to touch you? You’ve never allowed them more than this?” His hand trailed over the tips of her fingers and then across her concaved stomach. She jerked again, bringing them closer. Too close. She couldn’t breathe. Her senses were alive, snapping heat through her veins. His hand dropped to the front of her skirt, right above her sex. He growled deep in his throat.
Part of her that was still operating at a rational level fired off countless reasons why this was one of the stupidest things she’d ever allowed. Besides the obvious fact that he was a Fallen, there was her duty to kill him. That was what she had been trained for. The Fallen were evil, devoid of any type of moral code. He could snap her neck right now. She was exposed to him, completely vulnerable. That’s what the Fallen did. They lured their victims in and left them for dead.
Julian’s hand drifted to the hem of her skirt while his other arm snaked around her waist. “I can bring you more pleasure than any of them.”
Her insides tightened. “No.”
He turned her around, moving her easily. “Let me give you this.”
Oh God, this wasn’t good. This was insane, and his warm breath against her cheek was driving her crazy. “No.”
Julian pressed her backward, slipping a hand up her leg. “Let me in.”
She bit her lip against the enticing pleasure of his hand creeping up her thigh, skimming over a pink, handprint-sized scar. His gentle touch there should have served as a painful reminder of what happened when one of the Fallen got too close. Instead a whimper escaped her, and he pressed against her harder. His breath trailed over the curve of her jaw and then down the slope of her neck. This was insane, dangerous…and deliciously wicked.
He lifted his head, his lips hovering over hers. “Such a pretty little Lily.”
Her ears perked, and icy knots formed in her belly. A keening howl reverberated inside her skull. There was no mistaking that sound. Julian heard it, too. The air around them changed in an instant, but the sexual charge still thrummed through her blood. Craning her neck to the right, she pinpointed the exact location.
Several blocks over, in the part of town where tourists wouldn’t dare venture, she knew a freshly misled soul just crammed itself deep into the body of an unsuspecting human. Damn deadheads. She hated them as much as she hated fallen angels.
“Let me go,” she ordered.
Julian focused on her again. Lust hardened his eyes into brilliant blue chips. “Stay with me a little longer.”
If she stayed a second more, she was going to regret it. Big-time. Not to mention the mayhem that was about to take place once the soul latched its tentacles into a very alive body and got settled. It was sure to be epic. And she only had minutes before the once perfectly humane human went on a nut-jump killing spree.
She released her blade and pressed the wickedly sharp edge against the underside of his chin. “Let. Me. Go.”
For a second, she didn’t think he was going to, and there was a part—a teeny, tiny part of her body—that throbbed at the prospect.
“Why?” he asked.
His question gave her pause. Why? He was a Fallen—that’s why. Then again, Julian had always acted oddly when compared to other Fallen. The howl of a deadhead came again, causing a sharp pain to shoot through her temples.
He released her, taking a step back. “Busy little Nephilim. You better get going…before I change my mind.”
Her breath caught, but before she could respond or even flip him off, he disappeared. Just like that. With a disgusted sigh, she turned toward the Seventh District. Someone was about to get their unholy ass kicked.
Chapter Two
“All available units, we have a ten-one-oh-three, possible ten-one-oh-three-M at Ritchie’s Liquors in the Seventh District.”
Sighing wearily, Officer Michael Cons radioed in. “This is unit seven-fifty. Please be advised I’m near that location.”
He waited for the endless crackle to clear. “Ten-four unit seven-fifty,” said the muffled voice. “Caller states he heard someone behind his business screaming prayers. He went outside but didn’t find anything. He’d like an officer to check out the area.”
Michael’s eyebrows rose. Great—just perfect. This night couldn’t get any better. “Ten-four.”
As soon as he put the microphone down his cell rang. He slid it out of the sun visor, not even checking to see who was calling. “What?”
“Sounds like you got yourself a crazy or a drunk, rookie.”
He flipped on the lights and turned the cruiser around. “My kind of luck, Cole. I’ve already had three drunk- and-disorderly calls, two domestics, and a woman claiming her cat had tapped her phones.”
Laughter sounded. “What?”
“I’m not fucking kidding you.” He glanced at the street signs. “The lady wanted the Pentagon Police since it was an issue of national security.”
“Man, tough night.”
“Yeah, it’s been one of those nights.”
Michael wasn’t joking, either. His partner, Rodriquez, called off the shift, claiming swine flu or mad cow disease—whatever. The damn calls had been coming in nonstop, and the nutcases were out in force. This was one of those nights when he seriously wished he’d stayed at his desk job, one that had been far away from the crazy public.
He squinted at the bright neon lights of Ritchie’s Liquors as he parked the cruiser. “I’ve gotta go check this shit out.”
“Sure man,” responded Cole. “Have fun with your praying drunk.”
“Screw you.” Michael shoved the cell back into the visor and unclipped the duty flashlight as he radioed in. “Ten-ninety-seven.”
Michael didn’t bother going into the liquor store. He skirted around the dilapidated building, entering the mouth of the narrow alley. Immediately the smell of rotting food and urine filled his nostrils. There went his appetite.
He moved the light over the numerous black garbage bags. “Hello? This is Officer Cons. Anybody here?”
The only sounds were the thugs from across the street and the passing cars behind him. Wishing he could somehow not breathe in the rank smell, he ventured deeper into the darkness and peered into one of the Dumpsters.
His hand dropped to his gun as his sensitive ears picked up a noise to his left. “This is the police. Show yourself now!”
Under the yellow glare of the light, the boxes wobbled before scattering across the dirty gravel. Several rats scurried out from the mess. He grimaced. Damn, he hated rats.
Slowly a bright orange shirt appeared, then dirtied blue jeans. Michael stepped back as the form staggered to its feet. The gray-tinted curls and the slack, wrinkled face of an old man came into view. His eyes held that glazed-over appearance drunks favored.
Michael relaxed. “Sir, this is the police. Are you doing okay?”
The old man glanced down at his shirt and let out a choked laugh. He ran his hands over the Washington Nats emblem. Part of Michael pitied the old man for various reasons.
“Sir”—he tried again—“how much have you had to drink tonight?”
