Page 21 of Raziel

I started walking through her place. One bedroom. One bathroom in the hall. No TV. Books stacked on the floor. Crystals in the windowsill.

A rehab workbook peeked out from under the king-sized bed.

“Don’t look through my shit,” she said from behind me, slurring a little.

“You drunk?”

She shrugged.

I came back into the living room, grabbed the burger, and held it out. “Eat, Maya.”

She crossed her arms. “Why won’t you leave me alone? You don’t even like me.”

“I like you,” I said. “I just don’t want to.”

“Why not?” she snapped. “Because I did drugs? Because I’m not classy and dainty like your little porcelain fiancée that I keep hearing about?”

“Because you’re a fucking mess.”

My eyes dropped to the healed track marks on her legs. Crack. Cocaine. Heroin.

She’d done it all.

She stepped forward and raised her hand like she was gonna slap me.

I caught her wrist mid-air and yanked her toward me.

She lost her balance and landed on top of me—both of us crashing into the couch.

I didn’t mean to kiss her.

But I did.

I grabbed the back of her head and kissed her hard.

Mouth open. Tongue greedy.

She tasted like overly sweet grapes.

Her hands tangled in my hair, nails scratching my scalp and the itch under my skin.

My hands slid down her back, under her shirt, down to her ass.

She started grinding on me—slow at first.

Her breath hitched when I pulled her hips down against me.

I reached into her shorts.

She smacked my hand away.

“Don’t touch me,” she breathed.

But she kept grinding.

Kept rocking her hips against my dick like sheneededto.

Her hands braced on my chest. Her head dropped back. Eyes fluttered shut.