Jayne ran his hands over her cold skin, cataloguing her contours. Her mouth was pert and black, smooth like silk. He held her with one hand, feeling her power in her weight—a good ten pounds. He looked down her sight, his finger twitching on the trigger; he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
"Janye," Mal said, exasperated. "Quit fondlin' the liberated merchandise."
"I was just admirin'."
"Right." Mal shook his head. "Stop touching, and I'll let you keep one."
Jayne set the gun back in its straw packing and whispered, "See you in a bit, Christina."