“Just something to make you sleep.”
“I don’t want that! I don’t know you! I didn’t see you!”
She bucked against his elbow, wrapped her legs around his ankles, tried to kick his feet out from under him. He concentrated on her trembling buttocks. They were still reddened from the heat of the bath, so perfectly shaped, so firm, like two ripe apples. Her face was white with fear. Her hair swept back in reddish-brown swirls. A thin blue vein, just like Sir Derek’s, beat beneath the china skin of her temples.
Meade jammed the needle into her ass.
Stacey yelped. Despite the pressure of the elbow on her spine, one hand shot up to her mouth. She bit her finger.
Meade stared at her face. It was so contorted in pain that it no longer looked feminine. He thought of Sir Derek with the same porcelain skin, the same reddish-brown hair, the same blue veins.
A hot rush of hatred surged through him. He tore open his pants and had it off with her. The syringe, still embedded in her right buttock, slapped at his waist as he pounded away at her slackening body.