It's not that the sight of a woman in agony intrigues him.
It excites him.
Even this nobody girl...
Standing by her feet, he spares no chance to think, he did what he would do with any other woman, any other helpless, pathetic, weak…
The Shape crouches down, his hands cuff around her ankles, cutting off her sob. She looks at him over her shoulder as though she knows him. Her breaths accelerate. Bursting in hot spurts which condense the air.
He barely notices her scream amplify as he twists her leg, turning her onto her back. She complies without so much as a kick.
Too easy.
A dark stain on her skirt captures his attention for a moment, as he steps over her hips and lowers himself to the ground.
Though their bodies are closer, her waist wedged between his knees, he can barely feel the heat of her body dissipating through her clothes, melting through his. She shivers like a leaf.
The familiarity of their position strikes him momentarily, before it quickly evanesces.
Her lungs quiver beneath his palm which glides up her dirty shirt towards her neck.
He wants to cut into her chest and drain every liter of blood her teenage body holds, to see if she looks as plain as she did on the inside as she is on the outside, with her all too modest skirt hiding the knobby knees bucking under him. Her lank black hair is like an oil spill on her porcelain skin.
She is young and unmarked. And how he'd love to drive his thumbs into her muted gray eyes. The thought sends a shot of arousal down his gut.
His hands twitch, tempted to push the hair away, but they are already positioned around her neck. He applies the pressure. Her eyes widen. Her hands hook onto his elbows, trying to break his hold. Then, she punches the corner of his jaw, but he doesn't register the impact.
He returns the intent, lifts her from the ground a few inches and slams her down into the puddle which splashes upwards from all sides.
He thinks he's robbed her of breath until the words slip past with the final push of air stored in her lungs.
"I'm sorry..."
The notes of her low voice rise and sink. Much like her hand, dropping from his face and it's a clear declaration of surrender.
The Shape is discomposed. He expected more. There should be more...Why should he expect more?
Fight me...Fight me...
Then, Michael remembered her name…
And, again, came the rush, a warm assault in his gut which crashed further down his body.
AN: Chewing down my fingernails...Nervousness on how the next chapters will be received... Please let me know your thoughts.