“A girl could get used to this.” I loop my arms around his neck, pressing my face against his skin and dragging him deeper inside me with each breath I take. Man and outdoors, leather and sage. God, he smells good. I’m going to need a twelve-step plan to get over him when we part ways, because Angel is addictive.
He pushes the truck door shut with one booted foot, and then we head into the house just like this, him carrying me as if I’m the bride in a story. I’m not one for marriage or fantasies, but it’s kind of fun, provided we can make it to his room unseen. I’m not shy, but I also don’t want to share this moment with anyone else. And Angel comes with plenty of someone elses, including those brothers of his.
“I think we’re going to make it,” he says, voicing my unspoken fears. Maybe he’s not ready to share this change with the world just yet either. That works for me.
He certainly carries me through the house at a pace that would make a SEAL team proud, and the house is worth slowing down to appreciate because it’s spectacular.
He takes the stairs even more quickly than the front door, his face focused on his end goal, and I fight back an inappropriate case of the giggles. Not that sex can’t be fun, but Angel isn’t the kind of guy you laugh at, and I plan to rock his world. He wrapped me around his talented, super-sexy fingers when we were out on the ranch, but I’m returning that favor with interest. I owe him an orgasm.
He sets me on my feet just inside his bedroom door. I’ve never been in Angel’s bedroom before, either here or at the old house. There’s another fireplace and tall, vaulted ceilings. The windows look out onto the ranch and the mountains, presumably so Angel can keep an eye on his empire even when he’s relaxing or fucking. The furniture is on the same epic scale, the gorgeous dark wood both expensive and very masculine. A smack on my butt propels me further into the room, and Angel shuts and locks the door behind us.
“On the bed,” he says, and that low, rough voice issuing sexy commands in my ear makes me wet. Again. I have zero self-control when I’m near Angel.
He’s not waiting for me to catch up, either. He strides straight for the big four-poster bed that dominates the room. As he moves around me, I slip the Stetson from his head and toss it over his shoulder. I can’t have him thinking he’s completely in charge here—because that’s my modus operandi.
He turns his head to look at me. I love having his attention on me even if it kind of leaves me stunned. His stare is so intense and focused that I feel stripped down to my bones or somewhere deeper and even more intimate. Angel is dangerous.
“Strip for me,” I tell him.
I want to see him, hard and hot for me. Maybe things have changed for the better between us, or maybe, by tomorrow, the distance will be back because orgasms aren’t super glue and they can’t fix all the cracks in a relationship.
“Get on that bed, and I’ll give you what you need.” He sets a hand on my butt and nudges me toward the bed. The sheer animal magnetism of him as he prowls closer is overwhelming. He’s all masculine power and determination—and he’s coming for me. I learned years ago that sex is power, and I’ve never not been the one in control once I’ve taken things to the bedroom. Angel, though, is different.
He’s always in charge.
Instinctively, I back toward the bed, reacting to the command in his voice. He’s gorgeous, with a savage kind of beauty as his dark hair falls around his face and his eyes laser in on me. The massive erection tenting the front of his jeans makes his interest in me clear, but I’m riveted by the possessive heat in his eyes. Riveted and really, really turned on. So maybe I can make an exception for Angel. Maybe taking a few orders wouldn’t be so bad, not if it gets me this man. Or maybe that’s my inner bad girl whispering to me, and she’s not the smartest girl even if she is the horniest.
I get on the bed and roll onto my side. He’s promised me a show, after all. Or maybe that what you need line was about orgasms. Either or both works for me. My heartbeat kicks into overdrive. God, he’s gorgeous. His boots come off, and then his hands go to his belt buckle. I’m burning up. I need him now or five minutes ago or even fucking last week, but he’s making me wait and he’s tormenting me with this strip show.
“Faster.” My voice sounds hoarse and needy, and he smiles way too fucking slowly.
“Wait.” He undoes the belt, the leather slapping against his palm in a short, hard clap of sound.
I don’t wait. I also don’t do orders, commands, or anything else of the BDSM or domination persuasion. One of us has a lesson to learn here, and it’s not me. I sit up and swing my legs over the side of the bed. “Hold up, hot stuff.”