Warning: Chapter contains Adult Content.

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She's a working girl, selling her company to make ends meet, never reaching that nirvana of accomplishment.

He is a man of influence that studies and trains to be better than he is, in turn, bettering his people and their planet.

Together they will inadvertently create the change their world so desperately yearns for, and release their kind from under the slavery and persuasive strength of alien forces.

--

Jaded Pill

Chapter VIII. Evil Angel.

Her delicate hand landed softly on the outside of the heavy and simple door. As she listened to the noise echo through the empty hall, she noted how discreet and uninviting the entry appeared. The slab of metal and machine in front of her was astonishingly out-of-place amongst the delicate ornamentation of the rest of the palace. So much so that it almost felt inappropriate.

The door shuttered open with indicated speed as it pocketed itself in between the wall. There, standing in front of her, was a regal and nearly flawless man. His hair shot out in a halo of black fire above his head, stretching away from his onyx eyes. His face was stern, but not entirely uninviting. He wore casual clothing, a much different sight than earlier in the evening. His thick body attacked the seams of his shirt, as the fabric stretched across his chest and back. His arms were folded across his broad chest, and the 'v' of his shirt eagerly revealed a distinguished neck as it traced down. Despite his short height, he appeared statuesque. Exactly what you'd expect from a prince.

"Good. You've come," he said, his voice deep and alluring. "Please, come in." He stepped to the side for her to enter, his eyes capturing her own as she walked passed.

She didn't say anything, she only stood there, waiting for something to be said, something to be done. The room around her was wide, and the floor-to-ceiling windows arched out to the ocean that lay on the horizon. It seemed as if the windows themselves were straining to reach the labored waters in the distance. The room, even though strictly resigned for the royal heir, was notably unembellished. The ceiling, though high, was unadorned, except for the carved crown molding that hugged at the corners. The walls were draped with taught fabric, the simple wall sconces around the room lighting the stitched pattern on the dark green cloth. The room was dim, the lights lining the walls like fire in a cave, dancing and blending generously with the light of table lamps. There was a mantled fireplace on the far wall, above it, a painting of himself posed in traditional noble regalia.

"I didn't think Baini would allow you to come, even if it were a request from myself. She may be a whore, but she's very insistent on following guidelines," he said, the sound of the door shutting a faint noise in the background.

"She argued it, but ultimately it was my decision" she spoke into the air, turning around only slightly to catch a glance of the man that insisted on her presence.

He came up behind her and she could feel his hot breath as it casually brushed her exposed shoulders. His fingers traced the middle of her back, inching down until his palm came to rest on her lower back. "This way," he said as he walked her to a long, dark table, five high back chairs situated around it in a comforting display of false unity. "Please, take a seat."

She sat in the chair he had pulled out for her, the stitching on the cushion rough under her palms. Her nails discreetly traced along the carved frame of the chair, finding the polished wood a welcoming feeling. On the table top in front of her sat two silver kettles, stark and simple, a current of steam rising out of the mouths of both of them. Sitting comfortably around them were two cups, a small sugar bowl, and a delicate pitcher of cream.

"Coffee, or tea?" he asked, standing next to the table, his right hand limply situated on the handle of one of them.

"Tea, please. But if you'll indulge a poor girls wondering, what is coffee?"

"Oh, that's right..." he paused, "coffee is a foreign delicacy among the aristocratic. It was discovered on a distant, low-ranking planet several years ago, and since then, Frieza has insisted it become a noble staple in universal elite." He handed her the cup of coffee he had just poured for himself. "Here, why don't you try it."

"Oh no, I shouldn't."

"I insist. Please."

She reluctantly reached her hand up to his, her fingers brushing faintly against his own as she took the cup from his hand. The cup was warm to the touch, and her chilled hands struggled against the resisting heat. She glanced down into the heavy liquid, and a foggy, filthy image of herself staring up at her. She shifted her gaze up to the man standing before her, a quiet smirk playing at his lips. She brought the painted porcelain to her mouth, taking in the bitter odor. Wary of the hot liquid, she took a sip, an immediate discomfort and soreness taking over her tongue and the roof of her mouth. The acrid taste was thick and oppressive, abusing her senses.

"I suppose I forgot to mention it's a little strong. It takes a while to get used to it," the prince said, a simple hint of amusement toying with his words.

"I suppose it does," she spoke softly as her hair kissed her cheeks, concealing her fallen gaze behind a veil of embarrassment. She reached forward and settled back with her cup of tea. Instead of sipping at her drink, she took in the sweet smell, relaxing against the hard back of the chair.

He was hypnotized by her regular and common movements. These simple gestures were used by even the most powerful of men, but the way she gracefully moved trapped his eyes in a binding and threatening prison. Her long, slender arms were bare, and her milky-white skin beckoned the light of the room. Her eyes, though hidden by lashes and bangs, flickered like the stars in the sky.

She sat across from him with a hushed and reposeful interest in what was around her, or where she was. Despite his own animosity for soliciting sex from a woman of the palace, he still couldn't escape the stories that were told. These convictions revealed with great candor the enthusiasm and zeal the women often brazenly illustrated. He wasn't so naive as to think all women would be equally eager, but he wasn't so un-thinking to know that every woman, prostitute or not, would fight to the death as to sleep with the crown prince.

"I'm afraid I have to apologize," he said, breaking the overbearing silence.

"For what?" she asked, the tug of his voice bringing her back to the reality she was in. Outwardly she masked the overwhelming sensation she had. Inside, she felt her stomach pound against her chest and her breath stop short of her throat. This unknown sensation gripped her mind, and her body responded.

"It's not often I admit faults, especially when they are my own, but I have to be honest with you: I haven't done anything this out of character before," he said politely, and truthfully. He couldn't explain why, but he felt the unrelenting necessity to explain himself to her.

She felt her cheeks flush with the unexpected confession. She didn't quiet know what to do, or say in response. She thought for a moment, her blue eyes staring back at her from her tea. She brushed the delicate etchings of the cup, her fingernails tapping the porcelain in a chiming rhythm. "I'm afraid I don't know what to say. On one hand, there's a certain pride at being the first you have called upon. On the other, there's a lingering guilt for the same reason." She didn't know if it was the appropriate thing to say to the man before her, given his stature and nobility, but she couldn't deny what she had said. There was an undeniable satisfaction to be the first, but an unbearable responsibility. This was a man of twenty-four years of age, so she knew that he had to have been experienced in certain goings on, but to be the first for him to call upon weighed heavily. She had to be perfect, but at what, she didn't know. She never had to be the one to initiate anything, let alone do much of anything else. She'd lie there, and that was enough.

"Yes, well, it's a double-edge sword, I suppose. But you needn't worry about it," he spoke, his strong, husky voice melodically embracing the open, ventilated air. "You shouldn't have to feel any responsibility toward yourself, me, or anyone else."

It was only a few words, a couple of blended, half-hearted statements, but the way he said them seemed to suit him well. He spoke like a prince; like someone who would soon rule an entire people. He didn't look at her in the eyes; instead his eyes were hidden, his lashes shadowing the rings of stress under his eyes. His long fingers picked at imaginary strings clinging to his pants, while the other hand lazily gripped at the handle of his own cup as it sat stiffly on the table top. His body was graciously bathed in the light of the moon, and Bulma swallowed in the sight. To her, it was as if she were staring at a living painting: his chest rose and fell with each deep breath, his strong hands gesturing her in come-hither silence. She felt her body respond, and as she shifted in her seat, she noticed his eyes fixed on her from behind hooded lashes.

"I appreciate you reassuring me and my worries, but I'm afraid it doesn't change the way I feel toward the situation. It's almost as if," she paused, not really sure what she was doing. "It's almost as if I'm overstepping my bounds, in a way." She was embarrassed, and a little ashamed.

He listened to her words, and they washed over him in a flood of expression. This woman came to the palace due to the lucky card she had been dealt given the circumstances, but she was, and still is an impoverished whore. The way she spoke, though, impressed him. Despite her meager background, she achieved a certain magnificent execution of words, as if she were taught her whole life, as he was, to speak brilliantly and without hesitation.

He smiled to himself. He took in a deep and heavy breath, letting it out slowly as his eyes found hers. "You know," he started, "physical appearance is the first thing anybody really notices. Beauty is as common as money can be for the rich. But the beauty you possess? It's the kind artists strive their entire lives to create," he spoke softly, his words filling the room in a cloud of acceptance, as if recognizing there was no turning back from where they were. He stood up from his chair and walked around the back of hers, his fingers tracing the top of the wood backing, catching a fleeting brush of hair. "When I first saw you this evening at the ball, I was speechless. It was a flicker of an instant, but it was an instant that I couldn't get out of my head. Until, that is, when I saw you at the exhibition." He said the last word with a leaking disdain that rolled from his tongue. "I couldn't take my eyes away from you." With that said, he bent in front of her, his mouth brushing tenderly against her bottom lip, and she responded graciously.

His full lips were warm and smooth across her own, and his hand sent a shiver of unexpected pleasure down her spine as he gripped the back of her neck. Her body responded to the dynamic movement of his thumb as it hesitantly, but voluntarily caressed the base of her neck. She leaned into the kiss, and their lips roughly danced together in perfect compliment. Her body trembled in exotic marvel as she was lifted from the chair and pressed against his solid and powerful body. His thick arms wrapped around her waist, while his hands roamed freely in the space between her shoulder blades and down her back. She, as if in free will and natural instinct, wrapped her arms up his back and latched her hands onto his broad shoulders.

He pressed her against his body; the warmth from her body embraced him. The smell of her hair as it clung to her cheeks drowned his senses in jasmine and mint. They were foreign weapons that no man had overcome, or so he assumed. The more his tongue played with hers, the more he wanted her. He wanted to see her withering with frail beauty beneath him. He longed, with unimaginable lust, to hear her cry out his name into the darkness. He needed to lose control in her scent, her sound, and her body. Without any further hesitation, or unwillingness, he ushered her body back against the edge of the hard table and lifted her just enough for her to sit on top of it. His lips never left hers as his hands expertly unhooked the taught fabric of her dress and let it fall to her lap. His fingers danced across her breasts as he made a path to her hips with his hands. He gripped her hips and pulled her to him, her legs spreading apart to allow their closeness.

She felt bewildered by how, with gentile force, he managed to make her melt at his touch and his taste. The warmth of his lips against hers sent a shiver down her spine. Her toes curled with each touch, and each lap of his tongue. She felt her nipples respond to the chilled air, but it wouldn't matter. In a matter of moments she was up against his hard chest, enraptured by the intense heat that surrounded them. Instinctively, she wrapped her legs around his waist, pulling him even closer, if that were indeed possible.

He needed more of her. He needed to taste her skin, to feel her body, to experience her. His mouth pulled from hers and left a trail of sensual kisses across her cheek until he reached her neck. He licked at her salty skin while his hands began to feel at her naked breasts. He felt the sting of cold air rush against his back where her hands had been, noticing, with half-opened eyes, her palms scraping the surface of the table as her back arched with the stretch. With insufficient pressure, he guided her further onto the table, her back straightening upon touching the polished wood. He didn't look into her eyes, instead fixing his own on her more than ample breasts as they rose and fell with each pant. His thumbs traced the satin skin on either side of her bosom, his long fingers wrapping around her chest as his eyes traced every inch of exposed skin while it soaked in waves of moonlight. He devoured her with his eyes, and if he were a lesser man he would've been content with just that, but his eyes grew weary. His mouth found her breasts again and ravaged each nipple, soaking them with his tongue only to nip it away with his teeth. She twisted beneath him and he could feel her fingers as they clutched at his shirt, her gasping moans an undeniable sign of her ecstasy.

She attempted to smother her sounds of assured satisfaction under a veil of labored breathing, her force of will defeated by his tongue as it made it's way past her taunted breasts and down the trail of her stomach. She never knew, after the years of unguaranteed pleasure, that she would be as sensitive to a series of garnered affections, no matter how distorted they may be. She whimpered as a way to restrain herself in response to the row of kisses he left along the aching skin just above her most woman of parts, still concealed behind her dress as it continued to cling to her hips.

He propped himself up on fisted hands, deciding, as if suddenly, that only the vision of her delicate face revealing the perception of her enraptured body could make him content with his decision to continue this endeavor. He hadn't been fighting with himself about his sudden alter of character, but he yearned for reassurance. He assumed she could feel his eyes consuming her because slowly, with reservation, her eyes opened, revealing their measureless depths and he knew, with little doubt, that if given the time he could get lost within them. He was ever conscious of her eyes digging into him, as if searching him instead of staring through him, as so many do. He had little idea of how long they held each other's gaze, noting with mild interest, however, that their labored breathing had finally caught up.

She stared up at him, her rested breath expelling in stiff, hollow sighs. Her arms stretched above her head, her hands creating a loose halo of intertwining fingers. Her back was still flat against the table top, her skin sticking to the polish in strained comfort. She desired more of him and noticed with unconscious interest that her legs, still wrapped around his waist, tightened their hold, bringing his hips to her own in natural urgency. She desperately fought the urge to grab him by the collar and kiss him hopelessly into submission. To take control in a situation such as this could bring her more harm than good, but the heat and tenderness between her thighs demanded attention, surprising herself into willful conviction of courage. She sat herself up slowly, her eyes never leaving his as he followed suit, backing away from her.

He stood in front of her, her legs latched at the ankles behind his back, her bare chest grazing the thin fabric of his shirt. His breathing had caught when she began to sit up, a series of thoughts pouring through his mind. Is she no longer interested in where this was going? Maybe he held off for too long, allowing himself the freedom to roam the depths of her eyes. But she wouldn't leave; she couldn't. Palace law states that if a woman of the harem is to leave before the deed has been committed, without the consent of the desiring company that is, than it was punishable by severe lashings, leading up to the dismissal from the court's patronage. He wouldn't stop her, however, if she desired to leave. He struggled enough with his own decision to call on her in the first place, so it would benefit him in his pursuit of his truest character if she were to leave now. He knew with absolute certainty that if she were to stay, he would not deny himself the pleasure of such a transgression of morality. He absently ran his hands along her rounded hips, shifting only slight in her hold of him and breaking the stare they had held for so long, only to watch with mesmerizing interest as his fingertips traveled the length of her thigh.

She watched his hand as it danced in circles on her skin, noting for the first time that his hands weren't nearly as calloused as a fighter's should be. She glanced up at his profile from behind disguising lashes and found the hardened lines of his jaw created a regal base for his face, and his sharp nose and bordering eyes designed a stoical embrace of his aristocracy. She let her eyes wander further down, tracing the thick outlines of his neck and shoulders. Her mind was lost to herself, no longer available for consult, or to bring her back to the reality she was in. She lifted her hand slowly, raking her fingertips along the defines of muscle wrapping around the length of his arm. She caught another glimpse of his face, his eyes still posed on his own movements. On instinct alone her hand graciously moved from his detailed arm to his broad chest, her palm pressing firmly against the hidden lines of his torso. She no longer found distorted curiosity in if he noticed her hands on him, or not, allowing both hands to roam freely along the length of his chiseled stomach. Her fingers twisted into the seams at the bottom of his shirt, only to lace themselves beneath the soft fabric and hide between the folds. His skin was pulled tight over distinguishable muscle, and her fingertips soaked up the curved definitions. When she finally stole a glance at his face, his eyes were boring into her with lustful appreciation. Her mind, in a swift return to consciousness, took control of her actions once more, and with embarrassed movement she removed her hands from his skin and set them to her side, her eyes hiding themselves behind long lashes.

He was surprised to feel her hands as they traveled their way down his chest, a tension building up in every inch she touched. When her hands discovered his skin, however, his stomach began to beat with the intensity a heart would. He stared at her with lewd eyes, his arousal obvious with a simple a glimpse. Her eyes held the same amorous affect as his own, and he drank in the fleeting look she studied him with. When she did steal her eyes away from her movements, he noticed the reservations return, as if what she were doing was unsuitable. He couldn't stand it. He ripped his shirt from his body, and in an equally swift movement removed the rest of her dress, not shredding an inch of fabric. He ravaged her lips with his own, pulling her naked body to his bare chest, the intoxicating aroma of their blending scents sending his senses into a whirlwind. He felt as her palms found their way to his skin once again, her nails expertly tracing up his spine, sending a shockwave through his body. He needed her. All doubts he had about this bizarre request flew away from his often rational mind, but the irresistible need for her overpowered every inch of his being. He could feel her fingers play at the band of his pants, and to ease his constriction he ripped his pants from his body, never taking his lips from hers.

She gasped for air when, after readjusting her hips, he thrust his thick, hard manhood into her with one swift movement. With unrestrained actions, he continued to move in and out of her, and her hips willingly moved to allow each push. She moaned into the night as her nails dug into his skin, arching her back only slightly to urge him. She bit her bottom lip to stifle an outcry of pleasure as he licked and nibbled at the tender skin of her breasts. She could feel her body tighten as he slowed his pace for a moment, only to quicken up to a less then demanding speed than before. Her toes curled as it continued at a steady pace, and her fingers raked into his thick hair. In response to her, he looked into her eyes and she stared directly into his, losing herself in their dark and heavy depths. He kissed her again, less urgent then he had the times before, and she felt as a form of sensuality wash over her body, only adding to the feeling that was building up below her stomach. She began to roll her hips forward, an irresistible impulse she had to motivate him to slow down, somehow knowing her climax was inching closer.

Their audible moans and fatigued pants filled the air, circling in the night and taunting their senses. Their sweat bathed them in the other's scent, their bodies illuminated in the moonlight as it bounced off the polish of the table. The forgotten cups of liquid pulsed with each movement, kissing the edges of the table in an unstable fight not to fall. A final cry shook the empty night, and the ghosts of displaced pleasure lingered in the corners of the main living quarter. Her fingers carelessly clung to his triceps as her chest heaved to catch up with her spent body. He hovered above her, propping himself up on weakened arms, his breathing as labored as hers. They took notice of each other's moisture-covered bodies and it seemed as if the heavy beads of sweat were eagerly attempting to wash away the gratification they had both experienced. With fervent vitality they attacked each other again, as if their exhaustion was an illusion brought on by the elements that surrounded and covered them.

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Author's Note: O.o;; This chapter was a long time coming, huh? Heh, heh heh... heh? I know, I'm sorry!! I really, really am! But apparently 60-hour work weeks can exhaust someone to the point of no creativity! He-ay! I hadn't heard that one... Anyway, it's finally out, and woop-de-doo, chapter 9 is DONE!! But I'm done promising 'cause when I promise I end up not doing it... for, like, almost a year. I will say, though, that I have no intention of letting it go that long again. I'm going up to Alaska to work this summer, so I'm hoping I can work on it bit-by-bit, in between work and play, of course. I didn't mean to let it sit there for... well, forever. I'm not gonna say that I didn't work on this chapter during that short hiatus, but everything I wrote I hated. I blame it on lack of creativity, of course. I've been on the road with my parents for two days now, which has given me every reason to escape into my head. It's a long chapter, or so it seems to me, but I'm hoping it makes up for not bein' around for awhile. Alright, enough of that... what you think?? Huh? They finally got their e-er e-er on! Get it? ... yeah, I'm lame. Oh, and I know, Vegeta is a little out-of-character, but you can't deny that Bulma is totally OoC. You're gonna have to deal with it. It's my story, anyway. Besides, I always liked to pretend that Vegeta was a completely different person behind closed-closed doors. You know, behind doors where no one, no one, would find out about a semi-true self. But that's the wistful DBZ nerd living in me. Yup, yup, enjoy. And believe me when I say that this story is only gonna get better. This is a promise I know will come to fruition. La.

Chapter Title influenced from Breaking Benjamin's song by the same name: Evil Angel. Around the time of the last chapter I was really into them, and I still am, but I was so into that I went to OKC to see them in concert with Three Days Grace and Seether. I love all of 'em.

Disclaimer: No ownage of nothin'.